#;;v: fate awaited with fell purpose

[eterunameo]

@elerondo || Banter Starter

Elrond was a very easy weight against his chest and in the crook of his handless arm as they travelled. “Do you know the names of the stars, little one?”

[vischys]

Subliminal Closure

“She is a decent individual.”

His own words echoed within his subconscious, accompanied by fragments of memory belonging to his humanity, memory of the brief moments he had spent together as V with the she-demon fashioned after his beloved mother's visage and beauty. The fragments passed through his memory lane as a series of projected images, one after another, each with various angle and focus, the she demon's face unconscious form, her apathetic borderline cold expression as she turned toward him with a flash of garms and sway of blonde hair that was most uncharacteristic of the woman she was molded upon.

"I'm not your mummy, V."

"You're a big boy."

"Is that why you went to find Dante?"

"You need to see this through."

Her apathetic visage turned into the disappointed expression that his beloved mother wore upon that fateful day where he and his brother were engaged in a rather violent scuffle that sealed their respective fates, the blood crimson of her shawl as she turned away from him in favor of going after Dante instead—

"Snap out of it!"

Vergil was jolted awake from what he realized to be a dream, a vivid and recollective one, but a dream still all the same. He bent down to pick up the book that must have fallen to the floor due to his abrupt awakening seconds ago, smoothing its cover and taking a garner upon the title Maps, flipping the page where he left it before accidentally falling asleep out of emotional exhaustion.

Every morning I left her behind, holding me with a fierceness I did not recognize as desperation, because both of us were blind.

Blind.

For so long, he foolishly assumed the worst of his mother's absence in the death-defying act that established his formative purpose and belief, believing his mother was blind to his bitterness, the unseemly drive that motivated him to run away from her and his brother that day. That she was blinded by her favor toward the little brother whom she often defended due to said brother being born merely minutes after him.

But it was his third brush with death and survival by a likely inadvertent act of salvation from his mother's lookalike that dawned the realization upon him.

"Snap out of it!" The she-demon's rather panicky tone echoed in his head but it was that brief flash of genuine concern upon her apprehensive expression that elicited a most vivid image in his mind, for it was the very same expression that his mother used to adopt when his child self got hurt from either a venturesome adventure with his brother or a physical scuffle with said brother. The same expression she would display before kneeling to his level to hold his tiny, bleeding hand while sporting the gentlest and loveliest of a reprimand-induced smile.

A sensation of something wet trickling down his cheeks pulled him out of his musing, and it wasn't till the wetness fell upon the page he was reading, creating a round damp spot upon the white paper, that he realized he was shedding the tears he hadn't shed ever since he lost his mother and brother to the infernal fire.

“In the end... I am the true tomfool of this family, am I not, Mama?” He mused with a tremble in his tone upon that affectionate form of addressal, one that he had never used in his recollection of her, until now.

He couldn't but chuckle at the irony of the situation, at the fact that his life has been but just that: a walking irony.

For it took an inadvertent display of unwitting aid, of salvation, from a diabolic imitation whose only resemblance to his mother was her visage, a being he barely recognized at first as anything but a mere tool of reinforcement in his demon side's crusade for the demonic fruit of power, to bestow upon him the revelation that his mother has never been anything but sincere and devoted in her affection toward him and his twin brother.

That she wanted to save him as she did his brother.

"The thing is, she tried to save you too. She kept searching and searching. Until it killed her."

He could allow himself to finally trust his brother's claim back then, that Dante did not attempt to flaunt his status as their mother's golden child by attempting to comfort Vergil with a fabricated story of their mother's non-existent sentiment out of pity, but instead, actually conveying the truth that their mother did...

You came for me after all, Mama. Forgive me for my powerlessness then, in both faith and prowess. For doubting her affection all these years and figuring the truth just now. For not being able to return on time thus letting her die.

One act of aid by a demoness fashioned by the very Demon King who brought about every pain and loss he had suffered for a lifetime. An act of aid that likely was not done in his interest, but in that of his brother, an irony abounds that brought about the most subliminal yet long-awaited closure to a lifetime of doubt and wonder as to his place in his beloved mother's eyes.

His guilt for failing his mother and most of all, for indirectly promoting the cause of her demise, shall abide as he lives. Yet this revelation that his mother actually attempted to protect him, that she did not abandon him, that she loved him, allows him to finally reach his closure and make peace with himself, his memory of her and lifetime of misunderstanding that ultimately misguided his steps.

And for that, he was profoundly grateful to the She-Demon despite the disquieting significance of her existence.

[curly-bangtan]

A Drop of Heaven II: Doll

[Series Masterlist]

Pairing: ot7 x reader // this chapter: Seokjin x reader, some Taehyung x reader

Series summary: Seven vampires have secretly been roaming the darks of your world for millennia. Each brother selects a Feed who becomes supernaturally bound to him, whose blood will be fed on until their inevitable mortal death. They have spent their eternity hunting for the exorbitant rarity that is angel blood - the most heavenly of food for vampires that fuel them with desire, lust and satiety. So what happens when they all find you, the first angel-blooded being they’ve encountered in two centuries?

Genre: vampire au, poly au, smut, angst, enemies to lovers (e2l)

Warnings in this chapter: blood drinking, mentions of abuse, obv blood and gore, kind subtle baby girl fetish?? oc has trust issues

Word count: 9k

A/N: This took me so much effort to write for some reason… SIGH I feel like it’s shit and disappointing cos it contains filler info that’s necessary for plot building. As for the lack of _smut_ (which ik is what y’all filthy animals are here for), I promise the next chapter will make up for it!!

[prelude, i, ii, iii, iv, v, vi, vii, epilogue]

❦

“Here you go.”

The clang of the white floral-embossed porcelain dish against the glass surface of the dining table sounds particularly crisp to you ear. The fresh pungent seafood smell infiltrating your nostrils, strong and unmistakable, answering your gurgling stomach.

“Lobster truffle tagliatelle.”

You stare, gobsmacked, at the melon-sized plate of pasta placed in front of you. It’s been so long, so long, since you’ve had a remotely satiating meal. Eyes and mouth watering from the delicious scent, you almost don’t know where to start digging in.

“T-Thank you.” You remember to say, though it comes out as a stammer. The corner of Seokjin’s pursed lips turn up slightly, enough for it to count as a smile.

Fork in your hand trembling in excitement, you impale a large chunk of fresh juicy lobster and twirl a good portion of pasta around it. When the flavour touches your tongue, a grenade of bliss detonates in your mouth, flooding up to awaken the pockets of happiness in your mind that have laid dormant for a while. You can’t help the groan of pleasure that escapes almost indecently.

You stop mid-groan when you remember your whereabouts and present company.

“This is amazing. Thank you for cooking for me.” Clearing your throat, you thank Seokjin again. As you glance up at him, you notice the blush creeping on not his cheeks, but his ears. In any other circumstances, you would find it endearing.

“You’re welcome, it’s my pleasure.” He has a habit of not meeting your eye when he speaks to you, it hasn’t taken you even a day to notice, as his attention currently fixes on a particularly large blotch of oil stain on his cooking apron. “I… enjoy cooking.”

.

After the happenings yesterday, the taste of Namjoon’s blood still tingling the buds of your tongue, you have been trying to steer your mind away from him. You had learnt that vampires sleep during the day, while staying active at night. It had been Monday morning when Namjoon left you in the room after… that thing, and you haven’t seen him emerge from his room since, not even in the evening when he was supposed to be awake.

Good, you don’t want to even remotely think about that. Or him.

You hope you won’t have to encounter him again for the rest of the week now that your day with him is over. That sire bond magic… The memory of the carnal compulsion throbbing in your head and chest makes you shiver.

Is that going to happen with all of them? Because if so, you don’t know how long you can keep hold of your sanity.

So for the rest of the day yesterday, in the absence of your sire to dictate you around in his obnoxiously stern voice, you took it upon yourself to explore the manor and try find out more about this predicament you’re caged in. You made it not ten steps out your room in the eerie candle lit hallway when you stumbled across Hoseok. No, stumbling across is perhaps not the correct term. You have a feeling he had been lurking around, waiting for you.

In your weak-willed confuzzled state from the fixing of the sire bond, you could all but refuse to let him take you on a grand tour around the maze of a mansion the seven of them inhabit. Hoseok had leaped at your response, so enthusiastic, resembling a child receiving a brand new toy he had been begging his parents for.

Despite his constant unfailing smile, there is something quite uncanny about the red-haired vampire. If you look at him for long enough, you can spot the smallest spark of madness behind the glaze of his eyes.

Still, regardless of your hunch, you allowed him to tug on your freshly healed wrist after him. Last time you defied Namjoon, that happened. You didn’t dare to seek the repercussions of challenging another vampire, especially one appearing as eccentric as Hoseok.

Stunning is perhaps too little a word to describe this estate - this is a place of fairytales. Two stories high, a garden the size of a park, a swimming pool to supplement the natural rock pools and ponds, a fertile greenhouse, a library fit for royalty, an underground gym next door to the cinematic movie room… Almost all the facilities one would find in a town located under a single roof. On the second floor are the seven bedrooms, and though Hoseok didn’t take you into any of them, he explained that they are all ensuite and connected to another private room.

“It’s called the Feed room, where the Feed of each vampire resides. The room you were in earlier was Namjoon-hyung’s, his bedroom which he doesn’t allow his Feeds in is through the door opposite the bed.” The door through which he had fled, you had noted in your head. “We don’t normally enter each other’s Feed rooms - it’s disrespectful, invasion of an extremely intimate space.”

No wonder Namjoon had been so displeased with Jimin.

“I guess how it will work now that all seven of us are sharing you,” Hoseok continued. A muscle in your throat twitched at ‘sharing you’. “Is that at the end of every day at midnight, you will rotate to the next Feed room where whoever awaits you. Kinda like… speed dating, but with feeding, and minus the speed ‘cause it lasts a whole day, and also it’s a perpetual weekly cycle.” He let out a sudden burst of laughter, as if he had said something funny, but you found no humour in the situation.

A perpetual weekly cycle. For the rest of your life. Rotating between seven vampires every single day.

The malignant lump in your throat grows, suffocating you.

Hoseok paid no heed to your lacklustre reaction at his supposed joke, instead threw an arm around you and guided you down the corridor. You didn’t run into anyone else in the duration of the tour, no doubt because it was the middle of the day which meant the vampires were all fast asleep.

You wished you ran into someone, anyone, even Namjoon. The sole company of Hoseok was making you uneasy. His overt eagerness towards you, almost like a pet dog, threw you off your axes. Every time he reached out to touch you in some way, though it’s always a harmless friendly gesture, you suppress the instinct to move away.

He appears a very simple man, genuinely happy all the time, child-like cheerfulness, very easy going. But that is all the more reason to fear him. He can act like this with you now, as if you are his friend, yet will also show no mercy in drinking your blood. You still remember how fanatically impatient to feed on you he had been, practically pouncing at your collarbone once given the green light from his leader.

This gemini personality makes you unwilling to trust him one bit, regardless of his kind comical display.

As Hoseok dropped you off back at Namjoon’s Feed room to catch some rest himself, you wonder how he dared to leave you alone unattended. Surely you could sneak out while they’re all asleep and make your great escape.

You had sat at the edge of your bed plotting, deep in contemplation of whether to leave right now before it’s too late, or to earn their trust first. But what would they do if they ever found you again? Surely not kill you, they need you alive for your blood. Surely they won’t hurt you that much either, would they? But then there is also the problem of where to go. You have no home, no family apart from your uncle whose fate remains unknown, no money, no life to return to. What’s the point of escaping then? At least here, you serve a purpose, have a roof over your head and food cooked for you.

Though the harder you thought, the more a heavy exhaustion fell over you. Your daily routine would now have to be synchronised with these vampires, you would have to sleep during the day so you could be awake for them to feed on at night.

You fell asleep wondering whether it was the sire bond lulling you to slumber, among other things in you that it has control over which you do not know of yet.

.

“You enjoy cooking?” You ask curiously after chewing your enormous bite. “So vampires eat regular human food too?”

Seokjin pulls out the chair in front of you at the clothed banquet table and takes a seat. “Well, not really. I guess it’s just me. I find cooking kind of therapeutic and calming in a way, and even though it doesn’t satisfy my hunger, I might as well eat what I’ve cooked rather than let it go to waste. The taste took some time to get used to, human food tasted so strange at first, but I’ve learnt how to appreciate it now… You know?” As he speaks, his finger traces the gold embroidery on the black tablecloth. You oddly want him to look up and meet your eye, but he doesn’t.

You decide that you like Seokjin.

He possesses a soft, shy, delicate quality to him, and unlike anyone else you can tell with certainty that it isn’t a deceitful facade. He is almost very… normal. Namjoon, Jimin, Hoseok, you can believe to be vampires. Whereas with Seokjin, you can’t seem to comprehend.

“Well, you’re a great chef.” It is intriguing, peculiar, how he shows such interest in something as mundane as cooking. He has an eternity to live, yet he chooses to explore the food of mortals as his hobby. But judging by the way you had watched him cook, you suppose culinary skill is more of an art to him. You don’t know why you find that rather cute.

“Thank you.” He mumbles, finally glancing up to check your face only to quickly look back down at his hands when your eyes meet.

When the clock struck twelve at midnight, marking the start of a new day - Tuesday, your day with Seokjin, you woke up with a clearer mind. You would stay here, at least for a while longer, get a feel of this lifestyle, perhaps learn some of their secrets first before making the decision of whether to run away.

You hadn’t bother letting Namjoon know as you made your way to Seokjin’s Feed room. The place is significantly different from Namjoon’s; clean, creamy white, and a gold wardrobe full of laced garments. Very feminine. A note sitting on the pristine dresser wrote:

Good evening.

Please dress in the attire I’ve selected for you found in the wardrobe. If you have any problems, you are welcome to knock on my door to seek help.

- Seokjin

Already, you had taken a preference to him at that point. He seems polite, respectful, the opposite of Namjoon’s imposing rules.

“Why don’t you have some of the pasta? Not hungry?” You smooth over the crease of your ivory dress. It is very finely made, you don’t require an expert eye to be able to recognise; not only this but every piece of clothing in his closet for you. Where did they get all this money?

“Um, I…”

When his sentence fizzles out, you realise your mistake. Your ‘hungry’ is different from his ‘hungry’. He eats food for pleasure, not out of hunger; his thirst is only satisfied through drinking blood, of course. You feel stupid.

“Or… Thirsty?” Placing your silver fork down leaning against the plate, you wipe your mouth with a napkin.

Seokjin physically goes rigid, more so than before. “N-No, I’m fine.” The fabric of the tablecloth bunches up under his fist before he lets it loose. His lips are pursed tensely, rounding his spotless cheeks.

Somehow you aren’t convinced; he hadn’t said it with much conviction. But why conceal his thirst? For once, a part of you wishes for him to feed on you. Seokjin may be your only amicable ally in this house, your only way out even. Bridging the gap between the two of you could be of more use in the future than what you can imagine currently. Furthermore, despite yourself, you feel a sort of empathy towards him. No, maybe empathy isn’t the right word; it’s more like you see a potential of a friendship between the two of you, and you would like to understand him better.

The difference in your mood when you are with him compared to the others is quite drastic, you’ve noticed. You don’t feel bitter or defiant like with Namjoon, hesitant and timid like with Jimin, nor fearful and subdued like with Hoseok. You are at ease, his presence almost calms you though you can’t quite put your finger on the root of it. Perhaps it is because he is the only person thus far who you sense complete genuinity and even guilt from.

But you don’t push it. If he doesn’t insist on feeding, then he has his reasons. It just adds to his intrigue.

A silence falls over the both of you, with you preoccupied with your meal, which you don’t know whether to call it your lunch or dinner see as it is currently the middle of the night. Seokjin gathers himself and straightens, watching you devour his signature dish. He had woken up at the crack of dusk, just as the sunlight was trickling away into evening, to buy the lobster fresh from his well-acquainted vendor by the pier. It is always a nuisance to try to go unnoticed outside; he much prefers staying at home and avoiding the curious breed that is mankind. But he wanted to not only make you feel welcome, but also to impress you. Though you don’t need to know that.

Seokjin is sure your night with Namjoon could not have been a pleasant one. He has scolded his younger brother many-a-times before about being more lenient with his Feeds, but he is a stubborn self-righteous man. Seokjin knows he shouldn’t have but he couldn’t help but listen in on your argument with him, he blames it on the heightened hearing. Though, Namjoon’s Feed room quickly went very silent apart from a few whimpers, which he presumed was because he resorted to feeding to suppress you.

“So… I know this must not be great for you, it usually takes Feeds a while to accept and get used to their new life, but how are you coping with every?” You are surprised to find him meeting your eye and instigating such conversation. He knows he is shy, yet he is trying. At this rate, you will grow fond of him.

“Well.” You unconsciously pat your bloated belly, unaccustomed to having a full stomach; no matter how much you want to finish this glorious plate of pasta, you physically don’t think you can take another bite. “I think ‘not great’ is a slight understatement.” When he winces, you quickly retract your sour tone. “It’s just… a lot to take in. It is overwhelming, really, to be almost plucked out and inserted into a completely different world like I’m some character in a game. The whole supernatural magic thing, the sire bond, the blood drinking. I’m still trying to process it.”

“Of course, I understand that. Trust me, if I could have it any other way, I would.” There is a hint of melancholy in his voice, and his eyes seem to drift to a distant past that you wish to see too. “I guess it doesn’t help that we are all very different vampires fundamentally, with completely different methods of action.”

“Yes, I mean I have spent one day with Namjoon, and only have just briefly spoken to you, Jimin and Hoseok so I can hardly pass a solid judgement, but I can already sense your dissimilarities.”

“How was Namjoon by the way? Harsh, I imagine?” His gaze travels to your wrists, which you note he has been doing subconsciously quite often. Is it out of thirst? Or is it out of concern on whether you were mistreated?

“Namjoon-” Your heart lurches just from saying his name, and the coil that has loosened itself since the last time you thought about your debauchery begins to wind again. “Yeah, harsh.”

“You will have to forgive him. He is… particular about his ways, very set on regulations and discipline. To him, there is a very well-defined line between Feed, and everyone else. Though the rest of us are usually at least friendly with ours, he has always kept it a strict predator-prey relationship with his Feeds. He does not speak to them if not needed, does not see them unless it is to feed, does not allow himself to even converse with them lest they overstep the boundaries he sets. It is an obsolete way to live, as a vampire, yet flexibility and adaptability are not words that agree with Namjoon’s fundaments.”

That explains so much about Namjoon as a person. Perhaps he fears attachment and intimacy with one that he is supposed to view as no more than food.

“Right.” You ponder aloud, perplexed. “I guess I could understand that perspective. Tell me more, about all of you.” This insight into their characters is not only fascinating but is also such useful information, whoever you need to use it against in the future.

Seokjin hesitates, as if unsure he whether he is at liberty to reveal more. But to your relief, he continues.

“Yoongi, you really need to be careful with. I shouldn’t speak ill of him as his brother, but his methods with his Feed are… extremely questionable. A Feed usually lasts us a decade or more; Yoongi can drain his Feeds to death in weeks, even after healing them. The problem isn’t his thirst nor his self-control, it is his lack of empathy, his cruelty. The way he treats his Feeds are… inhumane. We aren’t human but we at least try to act civil, yet Yoongi embraces our nature as demons in its entirety. He doesn’t even try to act like he is more than the monsters we are. He is a sadist, loves to inflict pain, to crush pretty things in his fist...”

Your breath hitches. You had sensed his darkness from the moment you laid your eyes on him when you woke up to them surrounding your bed. He drains his Feeds in weeks? There is no way you’ll survive Yoongi alone, never mind all seven of them.

“And what day am I with him again?” Staring at your half empty plate, you feel your blood draining from your head. Even his own brother admits that he is a monster, you can’t begin to imagine what he will actually be like with you.

“Wednesday, tomorrow.”

It’s like being shoved down a great chasm. The pure dread dripping like acid down your throat as your heart sinks.

You thought Namjoon was bad, but somehow the thought of being bossed around by him sounds extremely pleasant compared to being with Yoongi. And you are going to be alone in his Feed room as well... With no one to stop him to hurt you however he wants… Surely someone will step in if he takes it too far right? Surely, now that they are sharing a Feed? Please?

Flashbacks to your uncle’s fist connecting to your temple flare in your mind, the way he would smile every time he drew blood as if it were some sort of achievement. But you’ve been tortured before. You’ve had it all.

Don’t be scared. Don’t be scared.

You’ve had it all.

You’ve suffered and survived. You can suffer and survive again.

When Seokjin notices the slight trembling at your throat, how your eyes are frozen and glazed over as if in a trance, he quickly says, “Look, don’t worry, Y/N. If he takes anything too far, seriously harms you in anyway, let me know and I will make him stop.”

You blink at Seokjin. And wonder quietly how someone as soft-spoken and gentle as him could command a devilish psychopath. You appreciate the offer, you trust his kindness, you just don’t believe he would be capable of stopping his brother from doing what he wishes if Yoongi with you is as he described.

“Why is he like this..?” Why are there men like him and your uncle? And why can you never escape them?

“He…” Seokjin sighs. “Yoongi was not always like this. We have lived for a really long time, have been through a lot of misery that we all cope with in our own ways. The Yoongi I knew two millennia ago is still in this husk of a man, deep down. He thinks detaching from his emotions, creating this evil persona of himself is the only way he can continue living for eternity. We’ve all tried to help him, trust me, we have. It’s heartbreaking to see someone you love-”

His voice catches in his throat, and you glance up at his face, beautifully contorted in such a candor pain, plump bottom lip jutted out. You pity him. It is torturous to love a monster, worse for immortals.

“I understand it must be.” You quietly say, unsure of how to console him. These vampires, the complexity and depth of their issues are nothing you can ever relate to. You can offer no advice except your sympathy.

You try not to think about how your encounter with Yoongi, the creature so sick and twisted that it broke his brothers’ hearts, is tomorrow. You hate him already.

Desperate to wipe off the sorrow in Seokjin’s features that constricts your heart, you swiftly change the topic. “Tell me about your other brothers. Hoseok? Jimin? Taehyung?”

Seokjin’s eyes widen, as if awoken from deep thought, a redness tinting his face as if embarrassed from the vulnerability he accidentally displayed. “Right.” After clearing throat, his voice resumes its stability. “I guess you should also be careful around Hoseok; he is rather wild and unpredictable, sort of takes everything with a dash of humour, but is also the one with the worst self-control out of us all. He’s impatient and childish, hasn’t really seem to have grown out of his teenage mentality even after two thousand years.”

Just as you predicted. You gulp. This is an improvement from Yoongi, but so is everything. Is that really the standard you’re measuring against now? Seokjin sees the concern in your expression.

“But-” he quickly says, “his intentions are never malicious in any form. I can’t stress enough that he is really just a child at heart who wants to find light in every situation, so don’t let his moods scare you.”

“He does seem… rather odd.” Borderline lunatic, but that would be too rude to call him to his brother. Maybe you are being rude and quick to judge. When did you become like this?

To your surprise, Seokjin lets out a chuckle. You watch his eyes crease in genuine humour, a sight that makes you smile without reason. “Yes, he is very odd. But you will grow to appreciate or even like his personality. Truly brightens your day.”

Oh? You can’t say you believe him. So far, with the exception of Seokjin maybe, you don’t trust any of these vampires. You don’t see yourself ever letting your guard down around them in the future.

“Now Jimin, he wears his heart on his sleeve - very affectionate and loving with his Feeds, almost the polar opposite from Yoongi. He only sires females, and more times than not he falls in love with them. Actually, forget more times than not, I mean every time.”

That both surprises and doesn’t surprise you. It surprises you because it means that tenderness he had shown towards you had not been false afterall. Yet it doesn’t surprise you because in your heart you had believed him when he said he values and respects you, and those emotive eyes of his cannot lie.

Does this also means he will fall in love with you?

You don’t know how to feel. It is oxymoronic to you, for his prey to also be his lover. But what scares you is that, if the sire bond had caused such a drastic change in the dynamic between you and Namjoon, you can only imagine how strongly it will hit a romantic dreamer like Jimin.

And you. Will you fall in love with him too?

“That surely isn’t wise; he must get devastated when his Feeds… pass away.” You ask, and Seokjin’s shrug conveys the same lack of understanding for his brother’s ways as you.

“His coping mechanism is to find a new Feed to fall in love with as quick as possible, find someone to replace that void in his heart. I can sympathise with the appeal of love, we have lived for so long, it gets lonely for someone as affectionate as Jimin who always seeks another half.” At the word lonely, your eyes meet, and for a second you swear you can feel Seokjin resonating with the feeling.

You get the urge to reach out to hold his hand across the table and tell him that he isn’t alone now, though you don’t know why. But you just stare at his creamy unblemished skin and reply, “Oh.”

It shocks you, the urge of emotions you sometimes feel for this man before you, despite knowing him for not a week. You truly, truly want to comfort him. He seems so pure, so undeserving of the title of a vampire. Confusion whirls in your mind.

“As for Taehyung. Oh, Taehyung…” Seokjin sighs in a way that instantly makes you even more interested in the boy he speaks of. “He has many layers to him that will slowly be peeled to reveal a heart of gold, but first you need to endure his mystery and mischief. He may appear unreadable and confusing at first - he’s always had this strange duality to him, but in the end he forms such deep bonds with his Feeds. He is very picky when selecting his Feed, it takes him the longest time to choose one as his taste buds are peculiar and he always assesses the person as a whole rather than settling for any blood.

“He likes to spoil them with riches, designer clothes, sparkling diamonds, anything they desire. Feeds are more like friends then food to him, perhaps on the other extreme from Namjoon. Not only this, he is kind to all of our Feeds too. Him and Jimin often like to share or swap Feeds, as long as one of them doesn’t get to jealous and possessive. He hides his compassion behind his rascal playfulness, but really, he grieves the loss of his Feeds the most out of us all.”

In the blur of your memory, you remember Taehyung as the blonde devilishly handsome boy who was the first to dig his fangs into you. You had been so susceptible to his charm, had leaned into his touch because you had wanted him. Now Seokjin is telling you that this boy is a deeply emotional being who treasures his Feeds as companions?

Should you perhaps not place so much trust in Seokjin? Afterall his opinion on his brothers will of course be biased. Or maybe it is your own judgement that you should doubt. You had been quick to decide on how you view these vampires with the prejudice that they are uncivilised beasts. Yet their complexities have been proven time and time again, shedding the misconceptions you had doled them in your head.

You shall reserve your judgement from now on.

“Also, he will probably ask you to be his muse.”

“Muse…?”

“Yes, Taehyung loves to paint.” Seokjin smiles down at the patterns of the tablecloth to himself with a glimmer of pride for his brother’s artistry.

“Talking about me behind my back, hyung?” A rich voice appears behind you so abruptly that you jump out of your seat, startled, your chair falling back loudly. The clang echoes up the tall walls of the dining room.

Before you can look back, you hear the newcomer effortlessly pick up the fallen chair and push it towards you until its cushioned edge hits the pits of your knees. You smell him before you see him, a fresh almost fruity scent.

“Careful there, Y/N. Can’t contain your excitement to see me?” As he whispers in your ear, an ice cold shiver runs down the course of your back, his breath tingling your skin like teasing fingers.

When you finally get the chance to fully take in his appearance, your legs almost give in and plop right down onto the chair. Some people are so stunning that every time you look at them feels like the first time, their beauty never ceases to strike at you, rendering you completely defenseless. You want to say the culprit is his eyes, but then you see the glorious arch of his nose, and Michaelangelo-painted lips. If Seokjin’s beauty is an iridescence flawlessly-round pearl, Taehyung would be the sharp vibrant amethyst glittering like an undiscovered galaxy.

His tongue swipes out to wet his lips. Something inside you screams.

“Taehyung-ah, it’s impolite to lurk around, and especially rude to intrude on a conversation that does not involve you.” Seokjin chastises, standing up as well to mirror your stance. Suddenly, he sounds quite authoritative, not dictating like Namjoon, but stern, imperious. Unlike his timid tone with you previously.

“Sorry, hyung.” Taehyung expels a childish puff of air through his nostrils and puckers his lips. “Just wanted to see our dear angel over here.”

He stares at you with such an overt desire, almost lewly, that you feel something crawl beneath your skin. You take a step back closer to the table and turn to face Seokjin, if only to save your senses from imploding.

“You may wait your turn to get to know her, like everyone else.” The older vampire states, and though irritation should be ticking his handsome visage, you find a softness in its place.

And once again, you catch a glimpse of the extensive love and tenderness Seokjin feels for his brothers despite their behaviour and his role to keep them in line as the eldest.

“I know, I know.” Taehyung doesn’t step towards you despite noticing the distance you’ve placed. From his tight jaw, you can tell that patience is perhaps not his strong suit. It is straining him. “Only wanted to say hi.” He grumbles, still pouting.

This boyish mannerism is a guise, you remind yourself, masking the sophisticated soul Seokjin was describing. But why? You don’t understand all these impostures they like to put up. Why must they exhaust themselves by constantly playing games of Hide and Seek?

“Well there you go. Y/N and I will get going now, Taehyung.” Seokjin strides around the long dining table to reach your side. As he approaches, you watch his broad shoulders swing from side to side, an irony against his gentle personality.

“Shouldn’t you wash the dishes first, hyung? Can’t leave dirty plates lying around.”

Humour does not find Seokjin’s face, but it does yours. This Taehyung is a daring one to test his brother like this. You glance over to find the same mirth glinting in his ocean blue eyes. You look back at your feet to stifle a giggle.

“I-” He lets out a resigned sigh. “Fine, I will do them right now, don’t you worry. Y/N,” you face him as he address you, and three feet away, his skin looks just as porcelain clear, “why don’t you meet me in my Feed room?”

“I’ll escort her.” Taehyung quickly chimes in.

You hear a noise of protest before you are whisked away by a large palm on the small of your back. When you turn your head back, you see Seokjin shaking his in disapproval and pushing his hair back to reveal the pale curve of his forehead. The action flusters you for some reason.

But then you are keenly aware of the vampire beside you, guiding you out the room towards the grand staircase. The pounding of your heart grows heavier, nervous, scared even. As you peek up at him, Taehyung meets your eye, that serpentine tongue sliding out again. Matching his meandering pace, the both of you walk up the stairs wordlessly. The polished rail happily meets his fingertips as he slides them along the bannister. Your mind scrambles to anticipate what he’ll do next.

At the penultimate step, he makes an abrupt halt. You take your final step onto the landing before your legs know to cease motion as well. And with one wrong turn of you foot, you make the mistake of spinning towards him.

With the height leverage, you are at eye level with each other. Nose to nose, breath to breath. You twisted so quickly out of surprise for his sudden stop that he has to catch you by your waist to prevent you from toppling onto him.

Satan...

It has to be black magic cloaking this boy because you find yourself being sucked into him no matter how lethal he appears.

“Sweet angel.” He takes in your face as if you are a work of art, and now your heart is racing. Because the way he looks at you is the way so many girls dream and dream to be regarded by beautiful men like him with even just an inkling of the longing in his eyes.

“I have turned this world upside down looking for you, you have no idea…” Slender fingers snake to the back of your hips, shooting a flaming arrow up your spine until it is tingling your scalp. You notice the subtle difference in his tone from before, more gentle, less fanatic. “And now I’ve found you. So please understand and forgive my forwardness, I really cannot contain my need for you.”

All you can do is blink at him.

“Uh…” The flattery that his words imbues in you sits in your stomach, tumbling your insides into a tight knot. The feeling of being wanted, needed...

Taehyung lightly tugs on your waist until your hips are touching. When he leans into you, you hold your breath, frozen, watching his lips near yours. But rather than meeting your own lips, they skim past the corner of your mouth, the sensation sending a hot pulse down to your core. His mouth puckers at your cheek, kissing it with a delicacy that you don’t expect from him.

You can’t tell whether the drop of your heart is from relief or disappointment that he didn’t kiss you.

If anyone had tried such an intimate gesture with you, especially a stranger you hardly know, you would’ve kicked them in the shin, or at least yell and pull away. But for some reason, you revel in the smoothness if his lips on your skin, like a cool silken handkerchief brushing against your face.

You lean in, feet digging into the wooden floor to ground yourself. Your fingers toy with the fabric of your dress to remind yourself that this is real.

His lips travel to your ear, breath tickling the sensitive microscopic hairs on your face. “You don’t have to be shy with me, okay?” His voice tunnels into your ear, like a hand reaching into you and tying up your lungs. “You don’t have to pretend not to yearn for me.”

It is a bold assumption he is making, but it is also a true one.

You do yearn for him, in more ways than you can comprehend. The fibres that make up your being goes against the logic in your brain that tells you to hate this blood-sucking demon. But the sire bond hasn’t even been set between you two yet, has it?

Taehyung takes his last step up the staircase to arrive beside you, hands not quite leaving your hips but rather falls loosely to your side. Incapable of uttering a word, you allow him to lead you along the U-shaped corridor, passing door to door that only differ by the gold initials engraved in the dark mahogany wood. Until you arrive before one with SJ - Feed carved.

“Thank you for walking me.” You say although it’s more him who is grateful for the opportunity to spend time with you.

“It’s my greatest pleasure, of course.” Dipping his head, you catch a glimpse of the most dashing of smiles that allows the tip of his fang to peak through. Are they permanently unsheathed?

In the silence that follows, you wonder about the other vampires, their current whereabouts, whether they can hear your conversation with Taehyung. It is eerily quiet, and this house is large enough for your voice to echo. Can they all overhear Taehyung’s brave advances towards you? Can Seokjin?

“I guess this is my least favourite part of our journey - parting.” Taehyung brushes a stray wisp of hair behind your ear. Then the mischief returns to his voice as he suddenly lunges and nibbles on your earlobe, fangs deliberately missing your flesh. “From now on, you will find yourself looking forward to our time together. I promise you, Saturday will soon become your favourite day of the week.”

Then he’s gone.

This vampire speed is beginning to get on your nerves. How dare they always take advantage of this ability to flee at the most convenient times?

Though it’s not like you would’ve been able to muster a response anyway. Taehyung has a talent in extracting all function from your brain.

You enter Seokjin’s Feed room and slump against the door. Truly exhausted from the interaction with such an unpredictable, intoxicating being. You actually begin to miss the older vampire, the comfort and security he provides.

It is interesting, though, how Seokjin has chosen a whole wardrobe of clothes for you. He hadn’t been insistent on you wearing them, but it’s not like there has been any provided alternative to the white-pink paletted, almost lolita-styled outfits either. You pad over the closet and swing the doors wide open from the gold knob. Today you had picked one of the plainer, more neutral white dresses, devoid of any lace unlike almost every article of clothing in this wardrobe.

So Seokjin likes lace, huh?

You pull open the underwear drawer, hand running through the rows of neatly folded panties. You imagine how flustered he must have been while folding these, and smile to yourself. Your fingers encountered a larger piece of undergarment. Hooking it out, the fabric falls open, revealing an ivory lace bodysuit dangling from your finger.

Yet what makes your eyes bulge are the suspender straps that hang from the bottom.

Oh.

Why has he chosen…

Oh?

You feel a strange sense of perversion as you line it against your body and look into the mirror. Does he wish for you to wear this? Surely not the shy Seokjin you were speaking to?

But then you look around the room and notice a very blatant preference that he has. Gold-rimmed white bed frame, pink-accented white sheets, pearl-embellished white curtains. The entire room is washed over with a pure, almost infantile aesthetic.

And when it clicks in your head, you recognise how obviously this corresponds with and reflects Seokjin’s clean appearance and virtuous nature.

Hesitant, you shed your dress and try on the body suit. To your amazement, its sheer material fits you like a second skin, hugging your body at your hips and bosom espeically. You inhale in wonder at your own reflection, marvelling how good you look in this garment.

Never have you worn anything that has made you feel remotely as sensual, as titillating.

Your appearance is an oxymoron; you look so innocent with the little bows and floral web, yet so provocative with the neckline revealing your cleavage and ass completely exposed by the thong cutting. A wave of cold hits you, and your nipples respond.

The door behind you opens.

In the mirror, your eyes meet Seokjin’s as he immediately freezes at the sight of you, one foot stepped into the room. And for a horrifying moment, your heart plunging down to earth’s core, your reflections just stare at each other. Utterly mortified.

There’s a glint in his eyes that stirs something in your stomach.

“Shit!” You shriek when you regain your awareness of the situation. Seokjin swiftly slams the door shut as he exits the room, yelling a stuttering apology from outside. You quickly dig out a pale pink sweatshirt and matching joggers, the most concealing outfit you can find, and throw it over yourself.

Your face is burning. You don’t know how you can face him again after he’s seen you in that... that sheer lacy lingerie...

A knock sounds from the door, slow and hesitant. “Um, are you… dressed?” His voice wavers.

You wait a second to get yourself together before answering, “yes.”

When he enters this time, both your eyes are fixed on the wooden floor. Seokjin’s ears are bright red, almost as vibrant as his pursed lips. His own heart is hammering, the image of you dressed in that bodysuit refusing to leave his mind. He is scolding himself for even allowing such a thing to happen. Has he no manners? How could he just barge into a lady’s room like that unannounced?

Awkwardness brews between you two until he manages to gather his voice. “I’m truly so sorry, I didn’t mean to- I didn’t think you’d be-” His breath hitches. “I-I should have knocked. I’m sorry.”

You glance up at him, cheeks still aflame, to find him frowning at his feet, so clearly screaming at himself in his head. So you say, “It’s fine. It was an accident, you didn’t know.”

Sitting yourself onto the end of the bed, you watch him stay standing by the closed door, motionless still. There is now a tension in the air, like the wall of privacy that separates you two has been breached.

“Um… You don’t have to… stand all the way there, you know?” You say to him, hoping to ease his discomfort. Hell, he seems more uncomfortable than you do.

Seokjin looks up, nods nervously and sits a meter away from you on the bed. You almost see the clockworks ticking in his brain, trying to find the words to say to you to lessen the weird atmosphere.

“I didn’t expect you this soon.” You mutter, also trying to find a way to communicate that it’s okay.

“I washed up quickly.” The image of Seokjin doing the dishes in vampire speed in fear of Taehyung trying anything on you actually spreads your lips into a grin. Your unexpected amusement surprises him, and he finds himself smiling as well.

When you look at each other, the tension begins to ebb away, the both of you starting to find humour in this stupid situation. You heart warms, and you decide in this moment that, yes, you want to grow closer with Seokjin. You haven’t had any sort of companion in a while, your sister the only exception, and though you have gotten accustomed to the solidarity, you often find yourself craving for someone who understands you, who’s always there to talk to you.

And thus far he has been nothing if not open and honest with you. Answering your questions, helping you ease into this new life.

“I want to ask you about your sixth brother.”

Seokjin blinks at you. “Jungkook?”

“Ah right, that’s his name.” There are seven vampires in this house, yet you have only really encountered six of them. That time when you had first woken up on that bed, only six of them had fed on you. You thought you had seen someone lurking in the corner of the room, yet in your delirious overwhelmed state, you hadn’t paid much attention. You haven’t met him since. “Where is he? How come I haven’t seen him at all?”

The sigh you get in response percolates your intrigue. “Jungkook doesn’t feed.”

You think you’ve misheard him at first. “Sorry?”

“Jungkook doesn’t feed.” He states with such certitude. “He drinks from blood bags only. Sundays will be your day off; I don’t suppose you’ll see much of him even then, I guess you’d be able to do whatever you wish on his days.”

Your gratitude is overshadowed by your curiosity. Why would he, a vampire, choose to drink stale blood when there is a fresh option? “Wait, how come?”

Another one of those strained sighs, like he is frustrated with his brother for being this way, but not quite. “It… isn’t really my place to tell his story. He used to feed, but all you need to know is that now he doesn’t want to anymore.”

You take this as a sign to not prod on this matter anymore, you shall seek answers elsewhere at some point. But now you’re immensely interested. What kind of story is it that he isn’t permitted to tell?

“I understand.” You nod, feigning apathy.

He seems relieved by your reply, no longer having to tread carefully around a sensitive matter. But then you ask-

“What about you, Seokjin?” His name still feels foreign on your lips, the syllables not quite coming naturally to you yet. “We’ve spoken about all your brothers, so what about you?”

Taken aback by your forwardness, he stares at you slightly dumbfounded. “I… There’s nothing much about me.”

From his eyes, you see that he isn’t lying deliberately, yet you don’t believe him. He himself just doesn’t realise his own peculiarities perhaps.

“Oh? Surely there’s something.” You glance at the wide distance across the bed between where you are sitting. You want to inch closer, it feels odd to sit so far from someone you’re speaking to.

“I mean, I like to cook, to read, to keep the house in order I guess…” His eyes trail to his knees, returning to the bashful state he was in. You don’t expect too much. You’ve just met, he isn’t going to pour his heart out to you upon your request. If he had asked you the same question, you would’ve shrivelled up into a raisin and not be able to answer either.

You’ll go about it in a different way then.

“That’s fair. But I wonder why you haven’t fed on me yet.” You cringe at your own words because it almost sounds like you are asking him to. “Isn’t the whole point of… all of this... for you guys to feed on me?”

Again, he stares at you, perplexed and kind of surprised.

“I mean… I just- Wait why do you want me to feed on you?”

“I never said that.” It’s your turn to be ruffled, your voice comes out higher pitched than you would like. “I was just wondering, like, what is my purpose if you’re not going to do what you’re keeping me here for? I just don’t understand…”

You hope he doesn’t think you do want him to feed on you. Because you don’t. You don’t.

“I just…” He sighs again. Seokjin is apparently a sigher. “I try to keep feeding to the minimal.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like the idea of it.”

A vampire is telling you he doesn’t ‘like the idea of’ drinking blood, especially the celestial blood you possess. You would’ve scoffed if it were anyone else.

“You mean, like Jungkook?” You take greater care now as you speak, not wanting to prickle any nerve. His whole demeanour has softened, reduced even. When you lean closer, hovering over the space between you, he gets startled.

“Not really, well, kind of but…” You wait patiently for him to formulate his next words, pitying his difficulty in doing so. One second. Ten seconds. Twenty. “I just hate it.

“I’ve always hated it. I hate how I have to inflict pain onto someone in order to feel satiated. I hate how good I feel when drinking someone’s blood, so good that I can’t even register their cries for help. I hate the guilt afterwards that just festers in my mind the more I look at my Feed. Everything about it is so wrong. I still remember the first time I fed one someone, how I cried and hid for days afterwards at the beast I’ve become. The others can do it so easily, so remorselessly and naturally, and I wish I could be like them but I can’t. And the worst part of it is that I’m stuck with myself for eternity, with no escape from this never-ending thirst. I hate being a vampire.”

The weight of his words land blows in your heart. Never did you even remotely expect his underlying motive to be self-loathing, and now you see clearly from his perspective. You remember the guilt flashing in his eyes when they had all fed on you days ago. To have the necessity of living be everything that you stand against must be so agonising. When you look at him again, you see him through a different lense. You understand his reservations, his sighs and stutters.

You also note how he said ‘the beast I’ve become’. Become. They were once not vampires. And that makes it more tragic because you can imagine how he misses that life.

You don’t know what else to do other than to throw your arms around him. You have never been a person of much affection, especially after how the past few years have worn you down and stripped you of anyone dear. Yet at this moment, you can think of no better way you express your sympathy and rapport.

Seokjin tips back from the impact of your embrace, looks down at your face buried in his side. He’s frozen, shocked by your action, blushed from your touch.

“You don’t hurt me.” You pull away before he has the chance to hold you back, and his chest cinches at the missed opportunity. “I’ve been hurt before. You don’t hurt me.” His beautiful features contorts in confusion, nose scrunches.

Slowly, you bring your arm up towards him as you scoot to close the distance. “Here. Just feed.”

If there’s one vampire you’d willingly let feed on you, it is the one before you right now, who had broken down crying at his first taste of blood.

“N-No!” He looks at you, bewildered, yet still so so handsome.

“Even if you don’t, someone else will. Don’t starve yourself just to save me from the pain. I’m well-acquainted with it now, trust me.”

Seokjin glares at your wrist, at your silky untainted skin, scars hidden away and buried much deeper beneath the surface. Inhale, exhale. Contemplating. Fibre by fibre caving into his temptations. He knows he has to feed sooner or later. Maybe it’s best that it’s sooner, so his appetite is less severe and the damage he inflicts is kept to the minimal.

His delicate fingers come to support your hand as he brings it close to his nose and takes a long sniff. Eyes widening, he drops your arm in an instant.

“Come on, stop worrying.” You persist.

“No, it’s not that. Give me your other wrist, this one smells like Namjoon.” It’s your turn to stop breathing. Why did he have to say his name? Now you are reminded of the way he kissed you so desperately, and how your body sang in lust for him when that sireship formed despite the protest of your logic.

But at the same time, something in your core flutters at his comment. As if Seokjin had felt an ounce of territoriality, like he doesn’t want to touch anything that his brother has.

Wordlessly you pass him your right wrist. Your eyes meet as he opens his mouth, allowing his fangs to extend. Then the familiar blackness starts to overtake his irises, dark veins running around his eyes. “Look away.” Something in his voice cracks you heart, the shame.

“No. It’s okay, Seokjin.” With the hand that isn’t held in his, you carefully cup his face to face yours, thumb softly brushing the pulsing protrusions of vessels. The darkness in his eyes holds no true darkness at all though, you see through it. He can’t and won’t hurt you. There isn’t a single drop of fear inside you. Trust.

“I’m sorry.” And with that he sinks his teeth into you.

You brace yourself for the wrenching pain, yet in its place is a violent bloom of emotion. You feel. You feel so much. You feel everything he is feeling, the guilt, the disgust, the desire to be anything but what he is. You keep feeling and feeling.

Your mind feels as though it is melting into Seokjin’s, and your eyes shut from the violence of this godly force, attempting to make sense of it all. There is a roaring in your head yet the room is silent. The bond is forming, intangible molecule by intangible molecule. The pounding in your chest mirrors his own as he takes small suppressed gulps. His essence tickles your own, much like his tongue lapping your skin.

Why isn’t this hurting?

At this thought, you begin to feel a stinging at your wrist, as if the pain is slowly being summoned my your awareness. You try not to think about it, open your eyes and try to distract yourself with the pink tussocks of his hair that have somehow found its way through your fingers. You wonder if he’s feeling the same powerful binding as you are. The way he is hunched over your wrist right now, like a little timid kitten…

Then you notice that you legs are somehow over his lap. When did this happen? Yet you don’t move them off.

Your wrist is now starting to burn, the pain growing and growing by the second. But it is almost as if he could sense this because he pulls away at the right moment before it could hurt more.

He doesn’t look at you at first, turned away, the back of his hand dabbing at his mouth. When he does look at you, his eyes have returned to their human form, glassy warm brown, filled with the same turmoil that is tangling you. Lips tinted with your red.

You want to ask if the sire bond is always this violent, this overwhelming.

Instead you kiss him.

❦

@taexxxiiaa @serendipity-secrets @killcomet @askingtheimportantthingshere@blackpanther4550 @comingjimin @unatempesta-dipensieri @dapppphhhhh  @unatempesta-dipensieri @beach-bitch-bitch-beach @queerloser17 @linyi-lovbts @somewhereinthestarss @xxqueenwxtchxx @whitefeatheredwyvern @embrace-themagic @brokencrownqueen @i-dont-even-know-fck @bangtandimples @kalkeegan @beetaeass @confessionsofascientist @chimycthulhu @hisunshiine

❦

25/10/2019

© Copyright 2019

[heyifinallyhaveablog]

In response to @carminavulcana‘s prompt: 

5 times Bhalla almost let Devasena go. And the one time he wanted to leave along with her.

I’m sorry love, this took so long. I know I should have got to this earlier. But then 

a) This is Bhalla, we’re talking about, and,

b) My life is a messy, little, boring bitch right now.

So here goes nothing!

I.

It wasn’t just as simple as he would have liked it to be.

Yet, it involved no physical exertion at all. He simply had to pull the latch, untie the chains and then-

Devasena would be free-

-And he would finally heave a sigh of relief.

Moreover, it wasn’t as if she had a place to ensconce herself in. Gone was her motherland, and gone were the people in it. Her marital home had faded into oblivion as well, as this new land that he ruled, remained nothing of the Maahishmati he knew.

Amarendra Baahubali was long dead, and his wife, The Valiant Devasena of Kuntala, was only a breathing mollusc.

And he, Bhallaladeva, had no use for a relic. Particularly one that reminded him of his momentary defeat.

His fingers, calloused and hardened, almost reach out to the bars of her cage, where she lay, finally asleep, motionless, her breath a whisper, almost ominous.

But freeing her?

Was that necessary?

Couldn’t she just stay to witness the disappearance of his Brother’s memory?

Couldn’t she just bear testimony to the ruins He would bring about?

Couldn’t she just be a helpless spectator, while He finally took charge of what was owed to him?

No.

His soliloquy comes in a tone of finality.

Not until she saw the last of it.

II.

The Palace of Maahishmati was still aglow with the fire that had testified his wedding.

Torn from Saurashtra and supplanted in His Land was his Vallabhi, the only one whose affections had been undivided when it came to him.

Or so you thought!, His mind mocked.

He hadn’t been spared this time either. Baahubali’s ghost haunted him even as he forcibly took her from her Father. She, for her part, knew of the cage that held Devasena, and-

-She hadn’t been forgiving.

“Matricide and fratricide!” she said, her voice caustic, “Your hands reek of the blood of the one who begat you, and your breath bears the stench of the carrion you reduced a Father to! Your eyes still bear the spite you hold for his wife, who you cage only as a token of your savagery!”

He hadn’t stopped her as she had levelled her blade to his throat, millimetres away from their marital bed. He didn’t jerk the weapon away with an effortless swoop of his fingers, that longed to caress her cheek. He didn’t turn the knife in her direction either, to quieten her for an eternity.

Instead, Bhallaladeva had only left.

What if I set her free?, he wondered in solitude.

Would that win him his Vallabhi back? Would that grant him her love back?

The contemplations came and went in an endless stream, with conclusions better than the last, with prospects of love, hope, and warmth, all that he yearned for-

He only had to unlock the bolt.

But then, his vengeance was necessary. If Baahu’s spirit had lingered on, even as it tormented him thus, he just couldn’t let it have the satisfaction of knowing that he had finally won.

Devasena had to stay.

III.

Try as hard as he might, Baahu's memory just wouldn't take its leave. His subjects, his people simply wouldn't let him go.

I have tried!, Bhallaladeva furiously clutched the goblet in his hands.

He had. He really had, with all the sincerity he could muster in every way. But, somehow he had failed.

Correction-

He had been a miserable failure.

At times, he felt as if Devasena got a significant triumph watching him fail thus. It was infuriating to give her the satisfaction of knowing that the people weren't accepting his rule.

But then-

You should have known, someone sneers.

At times, freeing Devasena felt like one way to gain their confidence. It would suffice even if they let him start, in a small way.

It wouldn't take him long.

Somehow, it just didn't feel right. Devasena didn't deserve that ultimate triumph that lay in her freedom.

IV.

"Let her go!" His beloved pleads, her eyes bloodshot, her voice quaking, her fingers trembling.

"Vallabhi!" He really doesn't bother concealing the quiver in his own voice as she helplessly fell to her knees.

"Please!" she cried. "I won't ask for anything, ever!"

He fumbled as he held her in his arms. He fumed at his misfortune.

She had been unencumbered all along. Time had brought them closer. She had seemingly forgiven, and perchance ignored a lot more than she had remembered, as she began letting her walls fall.

He had let his guard down as well. Only Vallabhi knew him to have a side where he loved with all his heart and that he held no acrimony. None at all.

But it only had to last till she saw the cage, tangible and proud, right in the middle of the square. And till she saw Devasena, doomed and wretched to a fate none would ever find desirable. It had been hard to believe that the man who loved her so dearly could perpetrate such wrongs on another woman.

"She had a baby!" she begged, "Let her go! For me! For our child!"

His lips went dry as he saw her tremble in grief.

He just didn't feel the anger he should have felt. Instead, he felt the same pain as the woman in his arms. He had been elated when he'd heard the news of her pregnancy.

Happiness was months away as he eagerly awaited the birth of his child.

Hadn't Baahu been escatic as well?

Hadn't he killed a newborn?

Had he not slain his own Mother?

Was he not doomed?

For all Vallabhi's happiness, his vengeance bubbled, yet again. Baahubali hadn't spared him now either.

And he, Bhallaladeva, for his part, wouldn't spare Devasena.

V.

'Bhalla!'

The deep baritone called out to him, yet again in the middle of the night.

At times, the voice felt like a tangible form, as humane as Amarendra had once been, in the times when he used to smile, the warmth extending up to his illumined eyes…

Was it him?

Was it a ghost?

Or a spirit?

He always woke up, startled out of his wits, sweating profusely.

He never had to ask who it was, for he knew that voice too well. It was the voice that killed him a thousand deaths every moment he breathed, reminding him of his-

Sins?

Had he really sinned?, wondered he.

Would releasing Devasena be atonement enough to stop those thousand deaths?

But he hadn't really sinned, had he?

The Maahishmati Throne was his. Sivagami Devi's love belonged to him. None had been Baahubali's to call his own. The mighty Amarendra Baahubali had been in his debt, and had left his dues unpaid.

Unpaid debts accrued sin.

And in captivity, it was his wife who was atoning for his sins.

At least, that reasoning helped him garner some paltry slumber in such nights.

---

+1

'We couldn't save The Queen, My Lord.' the Royal Nurse almost trembled with the wailing infant in her arms.

Bhalla didn't look at his son. He could most definitely not look at his deceased wife.

There goes your chance of atonement, Dear Brother, He heard clearly.

Vallabhi's lifeless body seemed to mock at him in her resignation from life. She had purposely let it go, deliberately held back in a fight against death, only to relieve herself of the burden of loving an irredeemable soul.

If she had been unable to deny her love, she had denied herself the life that had been her destiny, and with it, she had taken the final bits of life he could cling to.

"Release her, please!" she had requested, time and again, only to be met by indifference and useless consolations.

Would she return if he set Devasena free now?

The dead cannot be resurrected, he told himself. He had no use for anything now. If he freed Devasena, maybe he could accompany her, and let this accursed land rule itself.

At least, he could make an attempt to revive his soul, just as she had wanted.

But then-

Vallabhi wasn't there to witness his redemption, was she?

And wasn't it Devasena's plight that had caused her such psychological malady? Wasn't that woman responsible for destroying his final chance at humanity?

She couldn't find her satisfaction in his defeat. He had to re-assemble his pieces and forge them into a stronger structure, not just for himself, but for his blood, now motherless.

And as for Devasena-

'Arrange for a nurse for the child.' he said impassively.

'And I shall provide food to the prisoner myself, later in the day.'

He would make sure that Devasena would understand that the pyre she was making was for herself.

---

[thedyingmoon]

🖤 I See My Future Before Me 🖤

~ A V X Reader Fanfiction, by yours, truly. 🖤

~ Set after Nero supposedly beats Urizen that 16th of May in an alternate universe. 🖤

~ V goes on a search for power to keep his mortal flesh from crumbling - a result from his failure to merge with Urizen. With the Yamato at his disposal, he goes to every place he could think of, looking for any clue and any kind of magic to heal him.

However, his search for that elusive power led him back to Red Grave, where a disaster beyond his imagination has already began to claw its way towards its helpless citizens.

Along with familiar faces, he takes on the very reckless job, hoping to atone for all the mistakes he has done in the past, all the while trying his very best to reconcile with the very few people he knew. He is aware that he might die along the way without ever having to see through his search for that different kind of power, but, deep in his heart, he knew he would be doing one last act of kindness towards the people he tried to end in the past.

Until he meets an equally mysterious girl who, like the rest of them, takes on the job. But, unlike them, she looks like she does not possess any kind of power at her disposal to win the war against the Dreadnought. What is her purpose? What is her motivation for going through this dangerous decision? And more importantly, what are those secrets she is hiding from the rest of them, but, particularly, from him, of all people? 🖤

~ As I've said before, the prologue part was an experiment. This is still an experiment. I have no idea how much my very first V X Reader fanfic would be received, so any kind of constructive criticisms are welcome. If you like it, then please, heart it. You can also share them with your friends. It would mean so much to me. 🖤

~ This is dedicated to @acieoj , the very first person who became interested in this tale. If it weren't for you, I wouldn't even publish this here. Thank you so much. This is for you, and the 3 people who liked the prologue. 🖤

***

I

For him, it started about a week ago. But, for you, it all started way back since you were little.

You didn't exactly have a normal childhood, as one would experience. Yes, you were poor, and your parents were farmers. You have a little sister about two years younger than you and she was the only one who played with you. You and your family lived in a small village north of Fortuna, away from civilization, away from the bustling crowd. Of course, you never minded. You were young, and you honestly thought that you had the perfect life.

But, everything changed one day when a group of pale people came to visit your family. Behind a closed door, you and your sister listened in on the conversation between them and your parents, hearing your names being brought up occasionally. Then, they were gone. Your life returned to normal after that.

Or so, you thought. About a few days later, some men came to visit your father. You could still remember your mother tending to the wounds those men inflicted upon your father. Then, the next day, you woke up to the smell of burning wood. Your house was burning, and so was the vast field of wheat your parents have been painstakingly working on. All of you escaped. Thankfully, none of you were harmed. Your parents carried you and your sister towards the nearest village, knocking on doors, begging for food, offering labor for a shelter. Your father and mother did everything they could to provide for you, but none of the people from that village dared to even look at you and your family. You could even remember some of them throwing rocks at you, saying you were the "plague", and that they would "perish" should they even try to look at you.

Then, as if by an unuttered prayer, those pale people came back, smiling at you, showing their sickly - looking white teeth, as if they were trying to eat you. Then, and only then, did your parents finally gave you and your sister. Of course, you struggled, not wanting to part from them, but to no avail. They took you and your sister away on a sleek, black carriage, which was being pulled by a pair of dark horses that seemed to glow both purple and blue. You even saw your parents being led somewhere by more of those pale people, down that dusty pathway, getting smaller and smaller until you could no longer see them from the window of the carriage.

The ride was suffocating and fearful. They all smiled at you, reassuring you that you will be safe, when in fact, you felt the opposite. A few minutes later, you arrived at their home - a dark castle that stood on a lone, dark forest. They led you two inside and showed you to your room without even giving you food. You could still remember your sister crying non - stop all throughout the evening.

That was just the beginning of the torture, though, for the next day proved to be too much for the both of your fragile bodies. You were harshly woken up by a pair of maids in pure white. They led you to a huge bathroom, gave you a harsh scrubbing, pulled your hair back and tied them into a severe ponytail, and dressed you in very tight and uncomfortable clothes. Then, you were led outside. A beautiful woman in black made you and your sister, and some other poor girls who, you're sure, were taken from their families, as well, stand in that huge hallway in a perfect line formation. The woman said something about an age old story you can't quite remember, then something about achieving "earthly perfection", whatever that was. A sweet kind of music sounded off, and the woman in black started walking, looking at you and all the girls, appraising you with a scrutinizing eye. Then, she dismissed you, letting you have your meals.

The next day, as you stood in that hallway with your sister, you noticed that five girls were missing. That same woman in black finally opened that huge, ornate door and gestured all of you to enter. You soon noticed that the big, circular room you were led at had multiple mirrors as walls. Everywhere you look, there were those same pale people who smiled sweetly at you. At the woman's signal, that same, sweet music from yesterday sounded off once more, but this time, the woman didn't appraise you. Instead, a much younger lady came forward and started dancing in front of you, her graceful movements making you mesmerized. And as the lady danced, the woman spoke once more of that age old story and their goal of this earthly perfection. Then, all of you were made to follow into the dancer's footsteps. She made you dance for hours, until none of you were no longer able to stand properly. After that, like yesterday, you were dismissed.

And, just like yesterday, a few girls went missing the next day. The lesson went on and on, the dances getting more and more difficult, the story getting more and more complex as the days gone by, as months passed, as years went on.

Blindly, you followed their rules, not wanting to end up missing, like those other girls. They forbade you to cut your hair, you were just taught to tie them intricately. You learned how to curb your appetite, as you could remember one girl going missing right after having too much food for her own good. You learned to walk with a straight back, not once letting yourself slouch for even a second, like that girl who went missing the next day. You diligently studied language and ancient art, not wanting to fail exams. The girls who failed? Well, away they go, not to be seen again. And, most of all, you did your best at dancing, not once letting your weak, starved body fall to the ground in exhaustion. You did the best you could to stay alive, for you knew what fate awaited you should you fail even once.

After six whole years of torture, you knew you were closely getting to the image of your captors' idea of an earthly perfection. That was, until your teacher introduced you to your first ballet shoes. You, and what was left of you girls, were made to wear and stand using them. Half of you failed, including you. You knew from the moment you fell that they were surely going to murder you, but your sister, who once cried herself to sleep for two years straight, who always relied on you for help, who ran to you for support in times of true pain, stepped up and shielded you away from the pale people who tried to take you away. At first, they were mad, unable to stand a slave who had the guts to stand up to them. But, when she spread out her arms like wings, held her head high like a queen, and stood perfectly using those hellish shoes, they were wide - eyed. And not only that. The moment she started dancing to the sweet music that tortured you for years, it was clear that she had already surpassed your teacher.

A fair and beautiful maiden lacking of any visible flaw, your sister has achieved her earthly perfection.

The pale people were beyond ecstatic. But, most of all, you were grateful to her. They would never take you away, for they have acquired your sister. What are you, a failure, to them when they already have her? You stood up to hug her, but she only gave you a sad look.

Days passed, and your sister became more and more distant. She didn't talk to you, and she never even slept on the same room with you anymore. She was being treated like a Goddess, pampered and spoiled and looked after. Whenever you call her name, she would just give you a melancholic look.

Then, on that particularly rainy day, she didn't show up. You tried asking your teacher about her, but of course, she would not answer. Days gone by without her, and you began to really fear for her.

What did they do to her? She was perfect! A maiden born of their ideologies and beliefs!

You had enough. You strode towards your teacher and demanded to know where she was. She only looked at you with coldness in her eyes and plainly told you that your sister had failed. You argued with her, until you were finally taken away by those pale people, throwing you in a dark and cold dungeon, where you saw, in utter horror, some items, a comb, a hairpin, a stained ribbon - some of the personal belongings of the girls who went missing. You knew you were going to die.

For a long time, you stayed there, starving and at the brink of death. Until the door was opened and you were harshly let out. They dragged you further down into the deepest, darkest part of the castle. Your time was slowly coming to an end. They led you into a dark room illuminated only by a single torch from the wall. They practically threw you inside and shut the door. You tried to stand up, but didn't have enough strength. It was then that you heard some movements from the farthest corner of the room. You tried to see past your spinning vision to know what it was, but the moment you saw it, you knew it was all over, for a fearful, demonic being with long, twisted horns approached you, its eyes yellow, its drool dripping on the cold ground.

You knew it would surely kill, or worse, eat you, but then, you suddenly heard a tiny voice inside your head. As the Demon approached you, the voice became louder and clearer, addressing you.

"Mortal who is about to cross fates, why have you summoned me?" It said to you.

You knew you were only having a delusion, and at that point, who cared for you, anyway? Your parents were gone, your sister was gone. What would you do except to accept the fact that your miserable life was coming to an end?

The Demon growled at you and lunged forward for the kill, when you were suddenly enveloped by a shield of warm light. You were shocked upon seeing an entity made of light materialize in front of you.

"Who,... what are,... y-you?" Your weak voice barely made out the sentence.

"I' am the one called - "

The Demon, who was getting angrier and angrier, growled even louder as it tried to get past the shield of light that was conjured up by the being of light in front of you.

"... a. Aspect of future. Protector of the present. Bearer of the past. I have come to fulfill a wish."

"A wish?"

The entity was glowing so brightly, casting the shadows aside, drawing the Demon out, almost melting its tough skin with the radiance. It spoke once more.

"You who are worthy of power, speak my name, and I shall do all your bidding."

You tried to stand up and approach it. You opened your mouth and uttered a single word - the ancient name that bound you to this entity for as long as you lived.

And the moment you spoke its name, a flash of bright light blinded both you and the Demon. The guards outside were startled, and when they opened the door to investigate, they were met by this entity, now taking over your body as its host. They fell on their knees, instantly recognizing you as their savior, but they were gravely mistaken as you held out your hand and disintegrated them with pure light, just like what you did with the Demon before them.

After that, the entity led you up towards the upper level, blasting a door on the sixth floor where the pale people secretly gathered. There, in your complete and utter horror, you saw your sister, or what remained of her, crucified on a steel cross surrounded by wilted roses. Her once beautiful body was mangled, almost beyond recognition. A crown of thorns was placed on her head where blood still dripped, and beneath her, on the bloodstained marble floor, was a form of an intricate circle with unknown writings on it.

The pale people, just like those guards before, fell down on their knees and threw their hands down in worship.

"O great one!"

"We thought we failed!"

"You have come to fulfill our wishes!"

"Take our offering of an earthly perfection as a sacrifice, and we'll do all your bidding!"

"Grant our wishes!"

"Grant our wishes!"

But, you were beyond mad and terrified for what they did to your sister.

So, this was all this is about - them abducting little girls, forming and torturing them to be perfect, only to be offered to an unknown entity who would fulfill their greedy wishes?!

"All of you,..." you said in a loud and unrecognizable voice. "DIE!"

With the new power you acquired, you killed everyone on sight, not sparing a single life. You burned everything down from ceiling to floor, lighting up the night and filling it with unearthly screams of death and despair. You blamed yourself for your sister's death, not being good enough to protect her.

You lost your parents, you lost your sister, you lost everything.

It was all because of those pale people who worshipped a fake god in order to satiate their own greed.

But, you also blamed yourself for not being strong, and perfect, enough to protect your loved ones.

***

"As I was saying," A stunning brunnette was talking to her freckled and energetic daughter. "You can't just go in there uninvited, Nicoletta!"

"Why?! He's my father!" The freckled daughter argued. "Why can't I see my father?"

"Because he had a lot of important things to do."

"More important than coming home?"

"Nicoletta, that's,..."

The mother just sighed. Her daughter was right. Why was her husband not coming home? Was his work more important than them, his own family?

She remained silent as she contemplated for a while until Nicoletta started pulling on her apron.

"What is it now?"

The mother looked at the direction where Nicoletta was pointing at and found, lying on the ground naked and unconscious, a girl with long hair and fair skin. She was there right at the ruins of an old castle and she was clearly not there for a good night's rest.

"Mum, what's that?"

"Oh, my God!" The mother almost dropped the contents of her shopping bag as she and her daughter Nicoletta ran towards her.

***

🖤🖤🖤

[thornsickle]

What is the end game for Rey and Kylo Ren, and how does it connect to the ultimate fate of the Force in the sequel trilogy?

With ‘The Last Jedi’ only a month away (a month guys!), I thought I would dive into something which might be viewed as a little too far-fetched to be discussing right now, but I think it’s crucial to put this out there before we have all seen ‘The Last Jedi’. Mainly because this could very easily be torn to pieces by the end of episode VIII (which I will embrace wholeheartedly either way, as I am sure that a compelling story awaits us all). So if you think this is all just moot to be talking about at this stage, or you’d rather not think about what will be the conclusion to the sequel trilogy concerning Kylo and Rey, then by all means skip this post. For those still here, I hope you read on and let me know what you think. Oh, and be warned, this is going to be a long post.

What will happen ultimately to Rey and Kylo Ren? At this point, given what has happened these past few months, I think ‘Reylo’, in the broadest of terms, is going to happen. Heck, it’s already started in TFA.

For me the more important question now is not if ‘Reylo’ is going to happen but rather, what is to become of their futures? Will they be together or won’t they? Right now we don’t know, and I don’t presume to know either, but I would like to talk about what could happen on a hypothetical level, given what we know about what type of story this is, and the narrative line, both on a symbolic and spiritual level.

Because to answer the question of how this trilogy will end, we have to ask what it is indeed about. And in order to answer that question, we have to ask what the sequel trilogy has to do in order to further the story of ‘Star Wars’.

The sequel trilogy is, in the end, about the Force.

But you see, I think the Force is going to have a much bigger role to play now, because the lore surrounding Star Wars needs to be expanded upon. We know this is coming because Luke has been trying to find out more about this mysterious Force which the entire saga revolves around, and I think we will get a lot more backstory on it in TLJ, judging by Luke’s books and the Force Tree we saw in the trailer. Heck, he’s on Achto, the original temple of the Jedi; if that doesn’t scream history and hoards of information just waiting to be found, I don’t know what does.

There’s a reason why episode VII was called ‘The Force Awakens’.

But how exactly will they expand upon the Force and how does this connect to the fates of Kylo Ren and Rey?

“Without the Jedi, there can be no balance in the Force.” 

A simple, single line, which appears in the first scene of TFA. An old saying, which finds it’s roots in the original trilogy.

‘The mission’ if you like, for this sequel trilogy, will be to deconstruct this notion, and by the end of episode IX we should be able to see that what Lor San Tekka states here is, in fact, incorrect.

‘Dust’ and ‘the Force’

The similarities between ‘His Dark Materials’ and the notions of ‘the Force’ are not surprising. Both are inspired by religious sources; for Pullman it was Paradise Lost, for George Lucas it was more general, taking inspiration from all forms of religion, but this greatly informs their ideas of their respective sources of power in their worlds. ‘Dust/the Force’, the idea of power, for both these creatives, resides primarily in the idea of faith and more importantly, ‘the consciousness‘. Why is this so?

The fantasy genre for me exists, first and foremost, because we want to tackle the morally problematic issue that is ‘power’. Magic, lightsabers, rings, wands, time travel, super powers, you name it, these are all simply vehicles used to represent the idea of power. However, what makes both George Lucas and Phillip Pullman so interesting, is that their philosophy surrounding power goes beyond that of the classic, cautionary tale about the misuse of power (Harry Potter - ‘horcruxes & Voldemort’, Lord of the Rings - ‘the One Ring’) or how one becomes ‘worthy’ of power.

The biggest similarity between ‘Dust’ and ‘the Force’ is their nebulousness and anonymity within their respective stories. The characters in both worlds have very different ideas about ‘Dust/the Force’, both on it’s purpose and what should be done about it. They are forms of power which ultimately do not belong to either the ‘good’ or ‘evil’. If I was to describe how ideas of ‘the Force’ are to change, I would say that Philip Pullman’s description of ‘Dust’ gives a pretty good idea of where I think this sequel trilogy is heading.

“Dust is a mysterious force of which the powerful people in the story seem to be afraid.”

This quote was taken directly from an interview with Philip Pullman, but what is so fascinating is that he might as well be talking about ‘the Force’ as we know it in Star Wars. In fact, this could be seen as the premise for the entire saga.

Here is the link to said video. From 1:26

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5N6vzZuPy1s

In the prequels, Palpatine’s main goal was to take over the Galactic Senate and ultimately rule over the galaxy. However, he did so in a very politically strategic way; by instilling fear in the public and, by extension, fear of the Jedi. He distanced the public from ‘the force’ and shrouded it in mystery, instilling ignorance in those he ruled over. He went so far as to hide his own identity as a force user in order to do this. By taking this power away from the people, he was able to easily manipulate those around him. This is why he was able to take over and create his Empire as smoothly as he did, “with thunderous applause”. His true power was his perceptiveness; he could see into people’s weaknesses and understood how ‘power’ could be both utilized and suppressed.

Palpatine was intelligent in the sense that he knew ‘the Force’ was a powerful thing, however, as Pullman says in his quote, he ultimately feared it. We know this because, quite simply, he tried to control it; first by extinguishing the Jedi, and second, by manipulating Anakin Skywalker, the greatest force user at that time, into becoming his puppet.

In His Dark Materials, ‘the Magistrate’ exerts its power through similar means; their basic goal is to remain in power by making sure the public never learn of ‘dust’ and its various capabilities. They are responsible for the public’s general ignorance over what ‘Dust’ actually is, they only know it as something corrupt and to be feared. The Magistrate successfully created in this way a distorted image of ‘Dust’, labeling it as something ‘evil’ and ‘corrupt’ (if you like ‘original sin’). This is exactly what Palpatine did to the Jedi; you might as well exchange the ‘Magisterium’ for the ‘Empire’ and you probably wouldn’t see much difference. 

On the other side, the Jedi during the prequels had grown ignorant over the true purpose of ‘the force’ and what ‘balance in the force’ really meant. This is why they ultimately failed Anakin Skywalker during his training to become a Jedi. George Lucas highlights the flaws within the council and we are therefore able to understand why the Republic fell. The Jedi only used one side of the Force, and believed the ‘Dark Side’ to be completely corrupt and therefore not to be embraced. They speak of ‘fear being the path to the dark side’ but ironically, it is that very avoidance of it, that ends up instilling fear of the ‘Dark side’ in force users and therefore sends either themselves or those around them down that path, becoming the very thing they swore to destroy. Philip Pullman also shows this in his trilogy but more on that later.

“Dust is a mysterious force of which the powerful people in the story seem to be afraid.” 

Once again, we return to his statement. At first it may not seem this way, but the Jedi too, in their own way, feared ‘the Force’ and it’s capabilities. Like ‘the Magistrate’, they created an order, a set of rules, a moral code, in order to restrain force users and stop them from being ‘corrupted’. Someone like Anakin Skywalker, who found extreme conflict regarding this concept, was exactly the sort of person who the Jedi feared most of all.

Like ‘the Magistrate’, they grew increasingly frustrated because of their growing lack of connection to ‘the Force’. This is shown most prominently when Yoda states “impossible to see, the future is.” And yet, Anakin sees, with painful clarity, the future and the fate of the one he loves, because unlike Yoda, he does not fully reject ‘the dark side’ and therefore it does not cloud his vision. His connection to ‘the Force’ is very much like Lyra’s ability to read the alethiometer; she sees nothing but the truth, something no one else seems to be able to do. Rey in the sequel trilogy also holds this ability; her version of this comes in the form of ‘visions’.

The Jedi do not fully trust ‘the chosen one’, which means that they do not in fact trust ‘the Force’. Like ‘the Force’, Anakin Skywalker was someone who could not be controlled and yet, this is precisely why he was ‘the chosen one’. TLJ continues these ideas, with Luke fearing not only ‘Kylo Ren’ but ‘Rey’ as well, and I would guess this is because he does not understand ‘what’ either of them truly are, whether they are ‘good’ or ‘bad’, symbols of ‘the Force’ or, if you like for the purposes of this post, ‘Dust’.

It is important to note that one speaks of ‘the Force’ or ‘Dust’, we are talking about it as a whole. The Jedi may have embraced the Force as they knew it, but they didn’t in fact do so fully. Like the Emperor, they feared what might happen if ‘the Force’ was free and unrestricted. This is why we have seen through the saga the fall of both the ‘light’ and ‘dark’ side.

In ‘His Dark Materials’, ‘intercision’ is for me the equivalent of what happens to every Force user in the saga, may they be on the ‘light’ side or ‘dark’ side.

In Philip Pullman’s books, this is of course much more extreme; essentially ‘intercision’ is a form of lobotomy. In literature, lobotomy is often used as a symbol for the loss of freedom and individual thought – just look at Tennessee Williams’ ‘Suddenly Last Summer’ as the most blatant example of this. ‘Intercision’ is essentially the Magistrate’s way of preventing children from embracing ‘Dust’ as they turn of age, stopping from maturing. Instead they transform into vegetative states, with no free will of their own. The separation of the soul and body can also be linked to the concept of dementors in the Harry Potter series. 

Snoke’s manipulation of Kylo is reminiscent of this. He is trying to stomp out the very humanity out of Ben Solo – hence Lor San Tekka’s line “something far worse as happened to you”, alluding to Kylo’s almost Frankenstein-like appearance which harkens back to Darth Vader and his journey. For Kylo however, his ‘intercision’ is not yet complete.

Looking at it from a certain point of view, both the Sith and Jedi prevented their students from developing the complete use of the Force, by allowing them to only use one half of it and, one can argue, only one half of themselves. Although each respective faction states they do this because the other side is ‘corrupt’, it is clear something is incorrect about their analysis, because the Force is in constant flux throughout the saga, unable to settle, perhaps because of it’s misuse by both sides. In ‘His Dark Materials’, this is exactly what is happening with ‘Dust’. At the end of ‘The Northern Lights’ Lord Asriel is able to travel from one world to another, but only by killing Lyra’s best friend Rodger in the process. This causes Lyra to reevaluate both her image of her father, but also of Dust. Unlike Lucas, Pullman shows us from the very first book, that ‘Dust’ is not only being misunderstood by the ‘Magisterium’ but also by those we see as the ‘good guys’.

If the latest trailer for ‘The Last Jedi’ is any indication, Luke may have caught on a little, as it seems he has discovered the Jedi were ultimately wrong about their teachings and beliefs concerning ‘the Force’. Hence his line, “it is time for the Jedi to end.” In Pullman’s books, the adults have a clear misunderstanding when it comes to ‘Dust’, largely because they know so little about it, and more importantly, because they are unable to control it. This is essentially what I think Luke has discovered or will discover in ‘The Last Jedi’.

 “Lyra, who has been told all her life that dust is bad, has seen the adults around her doing terrible things in the name of getting rid of Dust as they think. She undergoes a moral crisis, and thinks ‘if these people have been doing these wicked things and they say that Dust is bad, then maybe Dust is good’.

This is exactly what I think will happen to Rey in ‘The Last Jedi’.

It leads her to connect with Kylo Ren because she witnesses what she sees as the misuse of ‘the Force’. In the original trilogy, the Death Star is the ultimate symbol of misuse of power. George Lucas even rubs this in by making the source of it’s power kyber crystals, which are in themselves symbols of the Force itself. This is heavily implied in Rogue One. This is just speculation at this point, but I believe the Resistance have been mining for some form of kyber crystals on Crait, and were perhaps building a sort of Death Star of their own. I’m not sure though if Lucasfilm is gutsy enough for that, but it would make a heck of a storyline.

With Rey, she sees that the light side of the Force is not entirely what she expected, and finding herself even more lost, wonders that perhaps ‘the dark side’ is not as corrupt as she is being led to think.

Yes, these are two completely different materials, but essentially, they are tackling the same themes. In Rey’s mind at present, there is ‘the Force’, but she is not yet aware that previous force users saw different ways it could be misused. Like Anakin before her, she will discover that her use of ‘the Force’ would have been seen as ‘corrupt’ by the Jedi, firstly because, on a practical level, she has not been trained and has little control over it, and secondly, because she utilizes both the Dark and Light sides of the Force. The several examples of this during TFA (see links below for examples). 

http://sakurau121.tumblr.com/post/147314934255/im-calling-it-rey-is-going-to-turn-to-the-dark

http://sakurau121.tumblr.com/post/152902112780/so-heres-yet-another-theory-of-mine-about-how

http://sakurau121.tumblr.com/post/154378487925/reys-introduction-to-the-force-in-tfa-and-the

My opinion remains open, but these just give you observations on Rey’s use of the force.

I think one of the reasons why she will struggle with Luke, is because she will find his teachings restrictive. Luke’s ‘fear’ of Rey is completely justified, because, as we have established, the ‘adults’ in the fantasy genre often fear the young because they represent what is to come – the future of power. They fear this ‘force’ because they do not understand it. This is why, as Pullman shows, power is not just abused by the ‘bad guys’ but by the majority of the characters in his stories because they seek to exert control over ‘power’ itself (in his case ‘Dust’). This is what ‘His Dark Materials’ has most in common with the philosophy of Star Wars because all the force users in Star Wars also seek to control ‘the Force’, one way or another (which turns out to be their biggest mistake).

“Everything that is consciousness – human thought, imagination, love, affection, kindness, good things, curiosity, intellectual curiosity.”

 This is Pullman’s description of ‘Dust’ and interestingly, there are many elements there which refer to both the ‘light’ and ‘dark’ sides of the Force. ‘Curiosity’, for example, is something which Yoda in fact tries to suppress in Luke – “there is no why”. Luke’s natural curiosity in the world around him, the possibilities that he sees, is in fact his greatest quality and the reason why he was able to save his father and help him fulfill the prophecy of ‘The Chosen One’. So, what does that say about Yoda and what would have happened if Luke had suppressed his true self?

For Rey and Kylo Ren, they will discover, as Lyra did, that power is being misused by pretty much everybody (hence all the characters in the promotion in TLJ being soaked in red). This is unsurprising, as far as ‘His Dark Materials’ go, because most of the characters in Pullman’s books are not necessarily ‘good’ or ‘bad’. Mrs Coulter and Lord Asriel are very good examples of this. Lyra herself is wild and has an almost untameable sort of quality about her, similar, I think, to both Kylo and Rey.

 The power struggle between the old and new ways of thinking is not necessarily something new. In the original trilogy, Luke defies his masters because he does not agree with them. Once again, I think this will be repeated in the sequel trilogy. After all, fairy-tales in the end are about parents and children, and how children ultimately must move on and evolve, separating from their parents. The future must prevail, and progress cannot be stopped. Change inevitably happens, and therefore, the freedom of independent thought is essential. In Pullman’s trilogy, he shows this in the most powerful way possible, and this is where we delve into what I think will be Rey and Kylo’s ultimate fate. 

Their fate will depend greatly on what happens to ‘the Force’ at the end of this trilogy which is why I’ve been barking on and on about its evolution and meaning in this post. So far, the Force has remained unstable, despite the fact that Anakin Skywalker restored ‘balance’ when he destroyed the Emperor. This is actually a very important thing to remember because it indicates that perhaps ‘balance’ is not necessarily the answer.

The Force as we know it must change and take on a different form. The sequel trilogy in many ways is about wiping the slate clean. I believe this trilogy will bring an end to ‘force users’ as we currently recognize them. Like ‘Dust’, one could argue that if ‘the Force’ had been left alone to thrive naturally and was not manipulated by man, then perhaps none of the events of the saga would have happened at all.

This idea of ‘the Force’ being free, the end of both the Jedi and the Sith, can only be demonstrated effectively enough through our two ‘protagonists’. This has been done before of course, and yes, ‘His Dark Materials’ is one example. This is only a suggestion but I think it’s entirely possible that Rey and Kylo will, in essence, let ‘the Force’ be free and no longer let others control it. It returns to how it was before force users were about. And so, ‘the Force’ as we know it, disappears and yet remains. Like Lyra and Will, Rey and Kylo lose their powers, and therefore, so does Snoke. This is how they ultimately defeat him. Like Noah, they must start anew, letting go of the old world in order to create a new one. However, in order to truly demonstrate the relinquishing of power, they must do one other thing.

 At the end of ‘His Dark Materials’, Lyra and Will are forced to part ways – they cannot stay together. By relinquishing power, they also realize that because ‘said power’ can no longer be controlled, they cannot control their fate either. It is often the case that characters must sacrifice so that they can restore peace and balance, returning ‘power’ back into the world, so that people can embrace it in it’s purest form.

If you want an example of this, look no further than that of Chirrut in ‘Rogue One’. He presents an alternative way of embracing ‘the Force’. Pullman has said that ‘Dust’ needs people as much as people need ‘Dust’. One cannot exist without the other. Which is why that famous line in ‘Rogue One’ makes so much sense…

“And the Force is with me”.

This idea of returning ‘power’ back to the ‘world’ is a very universal idea and can be seen in many different forms. The film ‘Princess Mononoke’ ends with Ashitaka and San returning to their respective worlds after releasing the power back to nature. The forest is no longer as it once was and each must respectively follow their own path but remain connected to one another, even when they are apart. Lyra and Will clearly embody this; they are from two separate parallel worlds but both sit on the same bench each year, aware that the other is close by but still so far away. ‘Spirited Away’ ends with Chihiro returning to the human world; Haku says that he is ‘free’ but they still must part because they have come to the end of their journey together. That film is very much about these ‘two protagonists’ regaining their sense of identity. Sound familiar?

But why must Kylo and Rey part? You may ask.

Aren’t they supposed to meet in the middle and connect to create a new group of force users?

Perhaps. But it would go against everything that I have just said up until now. We cannot forget that while they will connect to each other, they represent opposites sides of a coin, like Ashitaka and San (’man’ and ‘nature’), Haku and Chihiro (‘spirit’ and ‘consciousness’). Ying and Yang, and while both connect to both sides of the Force, they will, in the end, embrace one side a little more than the other. They are two separate beings, and by finding their true ‘identities’ at the conclusion of this trilogy, they remember the past and realize they must do better than those who have come before them.

I do not believe Kylo and Rey will begin creating a new group of force users because they will finally understand the true nature of the Force. It is not something which can be taught; it must be felt and developed naturally, like ‘consciousness’ itself, allowed to expand and mature overtime. We don’t grow up when we begin to listen and do what we are told to do; we grow up when we start to make conscious decisions for ourselves and understand the consequences that come with that. Only then do we begin to know ourselves and therefore become in touch with who we inherently are. This is something which no one can teach you; ultimately you discover this for yourself and in fact, that is the ‘true’ source of power, the true power of ‘the Force’.

Self-discovery, which is what the fantasy genre is all about.

Here’s another reason behind why I think Rey and Kylo will part at the end of Episode IX.

‘Casablanca’.

True, this is not a fantasy film, but it is a story about taking initiative and trying to make the world a better place (famously it was released during WW2 when America was already involved, and this film hailed the idea of ‘responsibility’ and ‘commitment’ during a time when the world was literally falling apart).

 It is a story about ‘redemption’ and I believe that is what the sequel trilogy will be about. The return of ‘the Force’ in its purest form through the redemption of those who use it, and that applies to everyone, not just Kylo Ren.

There are, however, clear parallels between the character of ‘Rick’ and ‘Kylo Ren’, which is not surprising as Humphrey Bogart embodied many traits which harken back to the idea of the Byronic hero, or ‘anti-hero’. As Palminteri said about Bogart, “he was able to wear a white hat and a black hat. He was the killer you sort of sympathised with.” Han Solo IS Rick in Casablanca you could argue, at first passive towards the political climate, hypocritical in the sense that he says he doesn’t care, when really he does.

Naturally, his son embodies this attitude as well and by the end of Casablanca, Rick has transformed his world view after reuniting with the love of his life, who is aptly part of the ‘French Resistance’. Is it only when he pushes her away, that he becomes truly selfless and he finally recovers his true sense of agenda and identity.

This is the key when it comes to Kylo Ren. The only way I believe to truly complete his transformation is for him to do the noble thing and protect the one he loves in the most selfless way possible. This is important because it becomes an integral part of his story arc. This does not however mean that he will die. That would be easy, but the harder thing to do, would be to live with the decisions he has made. This is one of the primary reasons why JK Rowling did not kill Harry Potter at the end of her series. Of course, another reason is because it has been done before, and unlike Darth Vader, Kylo’s story is tightly interlocked with that of Rey, more so than Luke’s ever was with his father.

Ebert describes Bogart thus; “he can play that hurt, that vulnerability, that guy who will never be able to bounce back and at the same time, you see inside of him that idealism. He has this cynicism that says ‘I’ll stick my neck out for nobody’ but at the same time he sticks his neck way out and it was that transition that Bogart was so good at.”

 I have a hunch that Adam Driver is good at this too, and this is precisely why Kennedy cast him as Kylo Ren. I don’t think it’s a mere coincidence that very specific expressionist cinematography was used during Kylo’s scenes in TFA; the use of film noirish side lighting to highlight his inner conflict and split-self, just as Rick is depicted in Casablanca.

Kylo and Rey will part ways but remain connected, coexisting. Ben’s love for Rey will echo the use of the Force by force-users, and therefore both must be relinquished in order to bring true peace to the galaxy. The bright side is it will leave the trilogy open-ended enough so that their story can continue and there is a possibility of them coming together once more, but I also think it makes for the most cohesive ending.

The Force does not need to be balanced, it needs to be set free.

‘Star-crossed lovers’, Rey and Kylo indeed literally will become I think. 

But what do you think? Let me know in the comments and don’t forget to like and reblog so we can get a conversation going. Sorry for the extremely long post :D

[gilnean-rose]

"Hang in there, please."

mood music https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HcQJzFzZfVI

Treachery. There were few things the raven-haired sorceress loathed more, and she had experienced it enough to feel its sting with a keen intensity that was sharper than any blade, any weapon in existence.

“High Commander,” the soldier bid, his hand drifting to beseech the Gilnean closer. She obliged with a graceful step over the cobblestones of Northgarde proper toward the gates, her brow pinching for a moment as she struggled to recall the man’s face. He wore their colors, and yet she failed to remember a name or rank. A newly enlisted, perhaps.

Movement in her peripheral caught her eye, and she noted the appearance of a familiar warden approaching from the opposite path. The whole of her attention remained fixated upon Pavel’s advance, awaiting her, a warm smile spreading over her lips – that is, until pain blossomed from deep in her belly and she heard, distantly, a wrathful cry of pure, incensed torment.

Agony rippled from the site of the wound where steel had penetrated through cloth and flesh; he had so insidiously taken advantage of Demitria’s momentary distraction, swept beneath her guard and delivered the strike with merciless precision. She understood now why she knew not the soldier’s name.

A violent hand shot outwards to claim the man’s throat, viciously tightening, even as he ripped the dagger free and prompted a strangled noise of furious pain. You will not live to regret this, she thought even as the strength began to dwindle from her tense limbs. Nonetheless, she exerted every last ounce of magical reserves that she retained to exert her will over her captive’s, unable to fulfill the sadistic wish to forcefully command him to slit his own throat, yet ensuring he could make no daring escape before her last breath was drawn.

It ultimately did not matter. The flash of pristine steel was barely captured by her senses from a point behind the man’s shoulder before it erupted again from his throat, cleaving through the column until his neck was efficiently impaled upon the familiar sword. Satisfaction momentarily eclipsed the pain of her injury, accentuated by the gurgle of her assassin as he struggled around the weapon lodged in his throat.

Pavel.

Demitria had been transitioned to the earth beneath her in the interim – or perhaps she had simply fallen after her guardian had delivered that final, brutal blow to what she now knew was to be her killer. Felled by an assassin, of all things; the sorceress’ fury was nearly as potent as the pain that radiated from the gaping wound in her midsection. Stubbornly, she envisioned her fingers locking around the dim embers of her life, intent upon not providing her now deceased executioner the satisfaction. In the deepest recesses of her mind, she frustratedly knew she would not succeed.

Dimly, she was able to register Pavel’s alarmed shouts, bidding the infirmary staff to her whilst a gauntleted hand applied pressure painfully to her open wound in a desperate attempt to stymie the flow. She knew now that she was not strewn across the ground, but propped above one of the warden’s plated arms that supported her shoulders while the other sought to prevent a tragic fate that was steadily approaching.

Do not do this to her. To all of them. They have suffered so.

Demitria struggled to retain her focus, to keep her suddenly heavy lids open. Throughout the alarms blaring around her, the panicked voices and the rush of footfalls, she saw the familiar painted visage above her, dominating all else in those final moments, laden with something she never thought she might see upon Pavel Wright: fear.

Her fingers were momentarily stricken with the desire to rise, to indulge in one final touch of the warden’s face, but a blurred glance at the crimson that coated them stalled her. She could not. Approving though she oft was of her guardian’s accessories of war, she would not have Pavel’s face be painted with her blood.

She had so much left to say, so much that now could not be forced past her bloodied lips. She hoped instead that each emotion, every expression of gratitude and loyalty and all else that she had ever shared with the woman that had sworn to always safeguard her, could instead be conveyed through the dying embers of icy hues.

“That is where my determination dwells now, my lady– within your safety.”

“It is only temporary, I assure you. And while you may not be able to see me, it does not change the fact that I am here and I am at your side. I am still just a touch away and that, no matter the state of your sight, will not change.”

“Do you swear it?”

“I swear it.”

“What if you had died, Pavel? What of me?! You nearly died for nothing! Tell me how I might be expected to reconcile with that!”

“I didn’t die. I’m right here! Can you not hear me? Can you not feel me?! I didn’t die! There is nothing for you to reconcile with! I have done my job. I have done EVERYTHING you asked of me. I can remain at your side – as your guardian. You have lost nothing in me. I’m right… here.”

“I am sorry you pay any price at all for my tenacity, but I cannot be sorry that I did so for my kin. I would do the same for you. I would take a thousand lashes if it meant to spare you pain.”

“No. No, you won’t step in front of me. I won’t allow it. You are my ward, Demitria. You are my purpose. You are my reason. You are my drive and determination, and with that, I am your guard. I am your shield, your sword. I am your guiding hand for when you see it fit. I am to keep you from pain– not to usher you towards it with speed in your step. Please– please do not damage yourself for my sake. Please, allow me to see the challenge you have issued to me without interference.”

“It’s okay, my lady– look at me. You’re okay now. I swear it. I won’t let anyone else hurt you.”

“Nothing will take me from your side, or you from mine. We are bound, Pavel. We will be bound until time itself unravels and there is nothing left of this world, or those that come after it. You will possess a part of my heart reserved for no other, no matter what. For eternity.”

“I will never stray from your side, or will anyone or anything within this cruel world be able to strip me from it. I will guard your heart with my blood and body. No harm will come to it or to you so long as I am capable of drawing a breath. No matter what.”

“I am grateful to have met you, as well. I am grateful to have enlisted myself and to have been given the many opportunities that I have. I will admit that I have enjoyed the one at your side the most and I cannot begin to express what your earned trust means. It has been an honor to hold it and I have no desire to let go. Of you. Of our bond. I will always be in service to you, in one way or another– even if it is solely through my heart.”

“Together, then…”

“In times of war, when a warrior’s heart and blade is called elsewhere to fight, they will at times be gifted with a favor – a token of great sentimental value. It is a tangible reminder of why you fight, and for what, even if you do not truly require one. It will also remind others. The foes that so foolishly dare to stand in your way will have yet another reason to fear you, as this token serves as a physical remembrance of your loyalty. Of dedication. And tenacity borne of both Stromic and Gilnean blood that flows through your veins.”

“I am unsure of what I have done to be deserving of such a token, but I am honored to find myself wearing it all the same. It means much to me– to my blood, to my cause. Above else, I am honored to accept it from your hand. You… You always know of how to rekindle my spirits in moments that I do not even realize that they are low. Thank you, Demitria. Truly.”

I’m here.

Always.

Of all her chaotic, rampant thoughts and memories, there was only one last admission she truly wished to make known; one final confession that the other needed to hear before her heart finally ceased to beat. It was so deceptively simple, so few in words; how many times before had she ached with the desire to say them?

The sorceress had few regrets, but to die with these words on her defiant tongue was perhaps one of the most agonizing of them all.

“Hang in there, please,” she heard whispered above her. There were no words to describe the suffering in the warden’s voice; Demitria knew it undoubtedly rivaled her own, even in these moments.

It’s not forever, my guardian. We swore.

And yet… even still, there was one last thing–

Not yet, she thought, desperately, struggling to form the words through a subsequent gurgle of blood that cruelly choked them in her throat. Pavel’s words of alarmed reassurance were no longer audible, the tear-stained, beloved visage above hers no longer visible, and she felt the last tendrils of energy – the very life within her, once an endless fire – slipping away.

Not yet. Not yet…

Her lips finally parted, but at last, the remaining flares of life dwindled away to nothing.

[aviationfiction]

XV

Autumn Dupont

“Step through please ma’am.”

I slowly brushed my trembling hands over the upper portion of my body, stopped midway, and gently patted the pockets of my form fitting denim shorts. With a deep breath, I walked through the body scanner and stood on the other side awaiting the bucket filled with my possessions to slide through the second scanner. The police officer standing just a couple inches away from myself stared in a knowing manner; they all do. He didn’t open his mouth to speak or say anything absurd but I’m assured in my assumptions about his thoughts and what he’s biting his tongue over. This famous city thrives on various attributes; South Beach being one of them, but the men who leave their blood, sweat, and tears on the court in the American Airlines Arena are the heart of it. People of all walks of life crowd into that building to experience the loose fun of the regular season, the electrifying playoffs, and if they’re lucky, the gut wrenching finals where either victorious confetti and golden trophies are handed out or tears and disappointment leave the entire building silenced until the next season. I’ve been amongst it all, often having professional cameras snapping away at me, or game goers unknowingly turning me into D-List Miami celebrity by asking for photographs. I’ve met the celebrities, I’ve been introduced to the executives, and I’ve sat amongst the wealthy all for the sake of supporting my husband and it has left it’s lasting affects not only on myself but just as much on the city. My husband’s no mayor or governor but I’ve been stupidly called “The First Lady of Miami” by women much older than myself although Gabrielle Union and Savannah James’ husbands have far more importance within this city than any coach, staffer, political figure, or musician. Well, Lebron is no longer here but the two championships he gave to this city hold their significance. As selfish as it may sound, I felt the affects of his decision to return home to Cleveland far more than anyone else in this city. My husband mourned the loss of his star player far more than he mourned the demise of our marriage.

“Here you are Mrs. Harrington.” We made eye contact when he boldly used my formal name and I swiftly grabbed the bold violet cross body bag out of his hand purposefully making sure skin to skin contact never happened.

“I have a mediation session. Can you direct me to where those take place?”

“You take the elevator to the second floor, make a left once you step out of the elevator, and walk down the hall. The office is at the end of the hall. You won’t miss it.”

“Thank you.”

The sound of my heels ceaselessly striking the mahogany marble flooring flooded my ears far more than the voices surrounded me and I allowed the leather chain strap of my bag to fall over my shoulders as I neared the elevator. As my finger tapped the button, a silent prayer was all that I could think of. I’d been standing alone and if God favors me, I’ll continue to stand alone as I’m enclosed inside of the confined space. A faint ding sounded off and I watched the heavy doors slowly open; bringing a crowd of six people into my line of view. As they filtered out, I quickly stepped inside and pressed the silver second floor button. The thrashing of my heart slowly began to ease itself as the doors began to close and within a second, my blessing was cut short.

“Whew! I’m glad I caught it. Excuse me.” As I stepped aside, the fair skinned woman tap the button for the third floor and tiredly leaned against the wall to catch her breath. As her chest heavily heaved in and out, she slightly turned her head to the side and her eyes panned down to my feet.

“Cute shoes girl.” Her eyes remained locked on the luminous yellow leather printed sandals and her body instinctively leaned forward so she’d be able to get a decent look at the tone-on-tone decorative bows and feathers; added on for a touch of extravagance and eccentricity.

“Love your top too.” She gazed over the lavender and white checkerboard patterned top and nodded her head to further make note of her approval. It’s deep v-neck framed the material off both of my shoulders and the exaggeratedly ruffled short sleeves fell over my arms. The cropped hem wrap around design showcased a hint of skin from my stomach and the bow I’d made with the loose ends rested perfectly on my side. I put effort into the look; the best style effort I’d put forth in quite some time. I prided myself on looking good for my husband; always wanting him to be proud to have me on his arm and to never need to turn his gaze to any other woman. While I wasn’t the typical kept woman who visited high end department stores many days out of the week, purchasing the latest and most expensive pieces from top of the line designers, I did make sure to go maybe two or three times a month to make sure I kept myself up to par. Despairingly, I felt like my closet full of garb was purposeful for game nights rather than date nights. The Agent Provocateur and La Perla pieces ultimately served as typical undergarments rather than sex driven flimsy pieces of material I so badly wanted Andreas to anxiously peel off of me. Today, I’d like for him to do a double take and realize I am the same woman he vowed his life to and inevitably destroyed. He was my Dre and I was his Bella, the woman whose picture he carried around in his wallet despite having a smartphone. I am the one. I was the one.

“Thanks.”

The double doors opened as soon as the elevator stopped and I bid the friendly woman a wave as I stepped outside of it. I glanced back and forth between both ends of the hall and made the left turn as instructed. The more I neared the fate of what was behind the door, the eager I was to turn around and continue to avoid this entire process. Courtesy of Issac, I’d been in communication with Sorrell Trope ever since Joanne’s ambush and he’s been handling the logistics of my divorce. He informed me that he represented Britney Spears, Nicole Kidman, Hugh Grant, Nicolas Cage and cheerily boasted about his most recently high profile case; representing Elin Nordegren in her divorce from Tiger Woods. He’d already submitted requests for disclosures and production of Andreas’ bank statements, statements of income, and numerous other documents I’d never seen throughout our six years of marriage. I can’t even began to tell you what the man is worth or what he owns besides our home, his mother’s home, and the two cars sitting in our garage. It never mattered. Frankly, it still doesn’t.

“Mrs. Harrington?” The stocky woman sitting behind the off black desk adjusted her thick glasses and checked off something on the paper sitting in front of her without ever confirming if her assumption was correct or not.

“Yes. I’m Autumn Harrington.”

“You’re all set up in the room over there. Your husband arrived about fifteen minutes ago. There’s paper and pens in the room if you should need them. This is a private mediation which means that there will be a charge per session where as a court ordered medication is of no cost. This mediation is confidential. Anything mentioned within the walls of that room can and will stay within the walls of that room unless you or your husband should decide otherwise. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Okay then. Also, the mediator is running a little late due to car trouble but she did say that she’ll be here within the next fifteen to twenty minutes; possibly sooner. I asked your husband if he would like to reschedule but he informed me that he’s okay with waiting. Will that be a problem for you?” Andreas and I, alone in a room together? The last time that happened I was sent home in tears.

“It’s fine. I can wait.”

“Okay then. Go ahead right in. She should be here soon.”

She turned around in her chair and lazily rolled over to the file cabinet to dismiss my presence and I proceeded in the direction she pointed in. As I opened the door, I immediately spotted Andreas standing at the opposite side of a wooden table and a window, which I’m sure I may consider jumping out of a ton of times before this first session is completed. His baby blue collared shirt was button down three bottoms from the top and in his usual fashion, he rolled up the sleeves until the cuffs were snug around his elbows.

I could barely stand to look him as he stood there, slightly shuffling, with his hands stuff down into the pockets of his khaki pants. His beautiful ocean blue eyes peered into mine and my heartbeat didn’t speed up in anticipation of his touch or a kiss, instead my stomach felt like it’d been dropped into a bottomless pit; free falling with my emotions tied to the tail end of it. To say I feel disparaged would be an understatement.  I used to be able to immediately feel the love between he and I as soon as either one of us entered a room and now there’s this eerie nothingness that radiates from his frame and harshly penetrates my reality. I will never understand how we ended up with this fate and there is nothing a mediator, lawyer, or even he can say to change that.

There are two seats left; the one facing Andreas and one placed at the head of the table which I’m sure is for the mediator. I have no choice but to sit across from him and allow the very eyes I fell in love with to scold me.

As I plotted down into the chair, I rested my hands on the table directly across from his own and our empty ring fingers turned into the focus of my attention. Rather than verbally greeting me, he gently ran his hand over my own and gave it a small squeeze. The gesture wasn’t one of comfort or sincerity, it was one of assurance; assurance that this is what he wants and needs from me.

“Hey Bella.”

Silence.

The ticking sound of the circular antique clock mounted on the wall was louder than any breathing or movement we made. As I glanced up at him, it became obvious he’d been waiting  for me to say something first and quite frankly, I’m speechless with rage.

“You’re waiting for me to speak? You’re divorcing me. You should be doing all of the talking here. Not I.”

“Please don’t start that. Let’s just keep this peaceful. I’m not here to fight with you. I don’t want to fight with you whatsoever. We’re two adults here. You and I can sit down and have a conversation without coming at one another’s throats. There’s no need for that.” He sat back in his seat and grimaced at the smug expression on my face.

“You have a lot of nerve telling me what there is no need for. You’re telling me that? The man with the new family?”

His jaw tightened. I used to love when that happened. I’d purposefully do or say something to anger him all for the sake of attention. His frustrations were the turn on that I often needed. Sometimes he’d take care of it; often times my index and middle fingers did the trick.

“We’re not here to talk about my unborn child or Amber. This is about us. Why are you taking this in a direction that has nothing to do with any of this?”

“But it has everything to do with this. Are you kidding me? We’re married. If you should walk out of this door today and something happens to you, do you know who’s responsible? It will not be your mother nor will it be that woman you’re involved with. It’ll be me. I know given the circumstances that happened to me nearly two years ago you may not understand that concept but that’s how it works. I am responsible for you until a judge signs those documents and dissolutes our marriage and vise versa. So for you to sit here as an engaged man with a wife, you must be out of your got damn mind if you believe that plays no part in why we’re sitting here today.”

“Yeah, well, you know what Autumn? This is a mediation. We’re not in marriage counseling. The mediator will be here to make sure we figure out what we want and what we don’t want so that we can move forward with the divorce. Luckily we have no children so there’s no need to discuss living arrangements, child support, nor custody. That makes this process far easier than it usually is.”

“Luckily?” On the ride here, I ran three different scenarios of how this session would go and I made mental notes, strategies, and promises to myself about how I’d handle all of them. In each, there was one rule: Do not cry. I’ve cried enough. I’d go to bed crying and I’d wake up with either tear stains on my face or tears rolling down my cheeks. I’d cry in the shower and stick my face into the water to manipulate myself into believing that it was nothing more than water droplets trickling down my face. I’d cry during physical therapy, personal therapy, breakfast, lunch, during my runs. Name any place, time, or location, and I’m sure as some point there were tears either threatening to fall or streaming down my face. It was a result of keeping everything bottled within. It was the only coping mechanism I had. As I slowly began to open up to Dr. Jill, the need to cry transitioned into a lot of thinking. The weekly assignments she’s been giving me helped tremendously and yet here I am, falling apart. My eyes began to burn as I tried my best to withhold them but gravity and my overdriven emotions defeated me.

“That’s not how I meant it, I…Autumn. Let’s not make one another upset.”

“How many times are going to say that? Should I expect that statement any and every time you say something that you know is either insulting or hurtful? I am not perfect but I didn’t do anything wrong to you Andreas. I don’t deserve to be spoken to that way nor do I deserve any insults that you may have for me. Think before you speak. First you dismissed your new life having anything to do with why we’re here today and now you’re feeling lucky because you and I never had children together though you know I wanted to have a child more than anything you could have ever given me. What’s next? You’re on a roll.”

“You know what, I apologize. I honestly didn’t mean it in the way you took it.”

“Yes you did.” I glanced over at the window, taking in what I could of the scenery and left him to drill a hole into the side of my neck with his eyes.

“Can we talk about the house?”

“What about it?

“Both of our names are on the deed to it and we agreed upon co-owning it from the very beginning. I don’t want to fight about it nor do I want to turn it into an ongoing back and forth. I am willing to give you the house. As of two years ago, the house is paid for in full. All you’d have to worry about are the properly taxes, the upkeep of the house, and any additional utility bills. You spent more time inside of that home than I did and you handled the interior and exterior design of every single aspect of the house. It's only right that it should be yours. ”

“You seriously believe I want that house? The house that you and another woman are currently living in and have created a child in? My God. You’re ignorant.” I shook my head as a chuckle slipped past my lips and he began to uneasily tap his fingers on the table.

“You don’t want the house?”

“No. I don’t want your house. I don’t even want to live in Miami.”

“Well what about the car? The car is yours. I can have it shipped up to New Jersey within a couple of days if you’d like.”

“I’m not interested. You have both sets of keys to that car so God knows who’s been driving it. No thank you.”

“Autumn, grow the hell up. It’s a freaking car. It gets you from point A to point B. Who gives a damn who’s been driving it? Do you think people sit back and ponder about who’s been driving a used car when they’re at a dealership purchasing them? The car’s in excellence condition. There’s no wear and tear on it. It’s yours. Take it.”

“I don’t want the car. That’s my final decision.” Andreas sat back in his seat, huffed obnoxiously, and glanced over at the same window I’d been staring out of while he offered me these pity gifts. There’s this arrogance slightly slithering through his tone. He believes offering me the house and car is an olive branch in the midst of all of this madness.

“You know what, let’s just cut straight to the point. Twelve million Autumn. We can settle this with our lawyers and get it done. I believe a twelve million dollar settlement is fair. You talked about wanting to return to school and with that, you’d have more than enough money to pay your tuition and live your life comfortably. I love you and I do want what’s best for you.”

Twelve million dollars. I’ve never sat back and attempted to figure out how much I’m worth numerically. How do you calculate those figures? Is it based upon intelligence? Physically capabilities? Liabilities? Were my duties as his wife worth two million dollars per year? How’d he even come up with that estimate? It sounds like such a bribe and a quick figure tossed at me to quickly get this over with but most of all, to get him down the aisle with his fiancee. It’s a payoff without any regard for what I feel or want. It’s a twelve million dollar “thank you for your services, now be gone” notice.

“You love me and you want what’s best for me? Do you really?”

“Yes, I do. Us parting ways doesn’t mean that I’ve stopped caring about you. I’m a human being and you’re the woman I’ve spent just about seven years of my life with. It didn’t work out but that doesn’t mean that everything that we’ve experienced together and gone through is erased from my mind. I do want to see you succeed and be happy despite what you may think about me right now.”

“You love me? Andreas, I’m so tired of you lying to my face. You’re so locked in on what you want for yourself that you can’t even take a step back and realize where you’ve gone wrong. You continue to behave like this divorce is mutual but you know what it’s not, though I wish it were.”

“I am not behaving like it’s mutual. I’m handling it in a peaceful manner.” I laughed. I had to.

“Peaceful? Why couldn’t you handle our marriage peacefully and respectfully? You’re a liar. You lied to me about her. You told me that she was just an old friend and I believed your ass. I stood by you and I believed every word you said to me because I just knew my husband would never do anything to jeopardize what we built together despite whatever issues we may have and you lied. You lied about our issues; painting me as the villain and you as the victim when I tirelessly put up with your shit. I put up with your absence. I dealt with you traveling with that team, being in practice day in and day out, traveling for camp, press, and whatever the hell else you had to do. I didn’t complain. I dealt with your absence while you were here. You’d be right there in front of me and I felt nothing from you. You were like an empty vessel and I just couldn’t get through to you. I didn’t complain.”

“And that’s the problem right there. Maybe you should have. You’re condescending and passive aggressive. Open up your mouth sometimes. You expect people to just get it or get you. You think that everyone’s supposed to automatically understand you, as if you’re some open book. You’re stubborn. You always have been and you always will be. I had to deal with that.” He slammed his hand down on the table, causing it’s wooden legs and the chair at it’s head to rattle in response. His scowl turned into a deep frown and he stared at me, testing me to challenge his statement.

“Open up to a man who doesn’t listen? How could I have opened up to you when all you did was complain? You complained about the job, the team, the city, your previous coaching job in LA, and your busted ass knee that you injured before you and I were together, and yet it somehow became my fault that you cannot play professional basketball. I dealt with you coaching a bunch of men that you quietly envied because you cannot do what they’re doing. You didn’t take that shit out on Lebron and Dwayne. You took it out on me. I dealt with you constantly swallowing pain killers for what you explained as necessary for the so called constant pain within your knee, only for it to turn out that you were physically and mentally dependent on them. I didn’t tell anyone. I didn’t tell your mother because I didn’t want to ruin her warped ass picture perfect image of you. I kept it a secret while helping you ween off of those shits without rehab. I was your verbal punching bag as you insulted and argued with me daily for and about them. I dealt with your months and months of erectile dysfunction because of you doping yourself up on those pills and then you stressing while I got you off of them. You made me feel unattractive and you blamed me for it. I dealt with you waking up in cold sweats, pacing, obsessing over championships, and crying because your dreams were ruined.” As I stood to my feet, he stared at his hands while they rested on the table. I awaited a response to my truth but I met with his silence. I could feel and hear my heart thumping against my chest as I attempted to catch my breath. The trembling of my hand, matched the tapping of my foot, and the tightening my stomach trekked it’s way up into my esophagus. He’ll be the death of me if I don’t get out of here.

“I dealt with you denying me of the children I so badly wanted. You continued to tell me that we weren’t ready and I contemplated stopping the birth control but I refrained from doing so to honor you. I didn’t want to ruin your trust in me. I stuck by you. That for better or for worse part of our vows played in my head every single day because I firmly believed we hadn’t hit rock bottom yet and if we did, we’d pick up the pieces and rebuild. I stuck by you at some of your worse times and you left me during mine. I don’t want an apology. Twelve million dollars? What I did for you as your wife is priceless. You wouldn’t be able to make enough money over the entire span of your lifetime to repay me for it. Take that twelve million and fucking drown in it.”

The sound of his voice was muffled by the door closing behind me. I could no longer bare to stand another moment within a room filled with his enormous ego, insincerity, and self-interest. That’s not the man I married; the man I’d share cups of hot chocolate with as we humorously observed our surroundings and made conversation about anyone who stepped inside of our cozy little coffee shop. He’s not the one who I’d go and observe as he coached the men’s basketball team just so he’d wink at me or bid me a knowing smile in the midst of him shouting out plays and strategies to bring his team to a win. He’s no longer the man who I didn’t mind being locked up inside of his apartment with; hiding from the world and basking in one another mentally and physically. We dreamed together, mapped out our goals, and worked towards our future. When it felt like the entire world was stacked up against us, we refused to let one another go and would not allow them the victory of ripping what we built into shreds of oblivion. We were a true union; a partnership crafted by God that no man could put asunder.

As I stood in that room with him, I now know that man has died and our romance perished with him.

A slow, cold, and tarnishing death that has left my love as a forsaken widow.

Dim rays from the setting sun filtered through the small opening of the plush white curtains while the faint sound of the ocean’s roaring waves filled the room. My now adjusted eyes panned up to the ceiling and a small yawn slipped past my lips while I attempted the guess the time. I’d been transitioning from sleeping to watching a random marathon of The Brady Bunch on TVLand since my return from the courthouse. I skipped breakfast while physically and mentally preparing myself for the mediation and the interaction with my husband ruined any desire for lunch. I’m sure the only reason why I’m awake is because of hunger. I deliberately took half of an Ambien so I’d be able to sleep throughout the rest of the afternoon and night, but my body or rather mind ruined the strategy. If I spent any more time watching that family while confined to the memory foam mattress, I’m prone to either scream or check out of this place.

With one roll, I reached over and grabbed my iPhone off of the nightstand and checked the time; seven forty five.

I missed one phone call from my mother, surprisingly one from my father, and two text messages from Heather asking me how the mediation went. Had Heather been in Miami with Mario, we would have been together right now having mojitos and stuffing our faces while she profusely slandered Andreas until she couldn’t find anymore words to say. In this instance, I would have allowed her to do it because I could use the laugh and I’m certain she can use yet another moment when she’s able to have a bash fest over the man she deems to be the biggest mistake of my life. She never excuses me for it because of the love, instead she does so because he has a “pretty face with demonic blue eyes”.

After eating, she’d find someway for us to work off the meal by randomly showing up to some club, rooftop, or yacht party she knew about refrained to mention to me. From there, we’d attempt to relive our college days that I cut short and left her heartbroken over. Though she no longer mentions it, I’m still making that up to her. The guilt is still there; not only for her but also because I should have finished my studies. Before we parted our inseparable ways to began our own lives, we should have walked across that stage together but that’s the past. I’m ready and willing to do it alone.

My fingers scrolled along my list of contacts and I hesitantly paused on his name. I hadn’t heard from him since we arrived in Miami. When we landed yesterday evening, we shared a car service to the Mandarin and he informed me that we’d be staying in town an extra day before we parted ways. Throughout the duration of the twenty minute drive from the airport to the hotel, he adamantly spoke with someone on the phone and didn’t hang up until he said those very brief words to me. I don’t know the ins and outs of his life but what’s obvious is how serious he takes what he does for a living. Though he does not live for it nor does he genuinely enjoy it, he admirably conquers all that he has to do without ever breaking a sweat or faltering. He’s powerful while basking in a modest and reserved demeanor that entrances you almost immediately. He’s unrealistic; the impossible. He’s a figment of my imagination manifesting into my reality.

Pizza? It’s Autumn.

I tossed the phone beside myself and my eyes returned to the french vanilla painted ceiling. As I prepared for a lack of a response, my phone faintly vibrated against my skin.

Meet me in the lobby in ten minutes. I’ll be near the revolving door.

I wish he’d of said twenty minutes, but I mindfully used the ten he offered to slip back into the shoes I’d been wearing earlier in the day and to run a bit of mousse into the wavy curls I’d been enjoying for the past couple of days. While riding the elevator downstairs, I reapplied my favorite MAC “Spite” lip glass to my lips.

As soon as the doors opened, I made the familiar sharp left and walked through the main entrance of the lobby. Just as he told me, he stood by the revolving door in a casual look that I wasn’t expecting. Since our first encounter with one another, I’ve yet to see him in anything other than a two or three piece designer suit. His slender frame is always masked behind the perfectly tailored material representing not only his professionalism but also his very old school taste. Tonight, he opted for a pair of simple navy blue slacks, a button down dress shirt of the same color, and surprisingly, a pair of sneakers. They’re no Nike or Adidas. He decided on a designer pair to mesh well with his entire look. His right arm adorned a simple gold watch; most likely a Rolex, and he left that as his only accessory. Clean, straight to the point, but highly effective.

“How are you?” I spoke first. He’d been too busy staring at whatever is going on outside to notice me coming.

“I’m well. How about yourself?”

“I’m alive.” He chuckled with a nod of his head.

“I can see that. That’s not telling me how you are though. So, how are you?”

“I’m alright.” He glanced in the direction of the glass doors once more and pointed at the Mercedes Benz a valet stepped out of.

“That’s us right there.”

“You were already down here when I texted you?”

“Yeah, I actually just arrived back from a last minute meeting with the second contractor. I was walking to the elevator as soon as you texted me.” We stepped inside of one section of the revolving door together and he did the pushing until we were outside.

“Were you going to relax?”

“No. I was going upstairs to order room service. You saved me from having to do that.”

He opened up the passenger side door for me and waited until my body was comfortably resting against the maroon leather seats before closing the door. He slipped the valet a twenty dollar bill as his towering body lowered down into the drivers seat and he closed the door behind himself. In unison, we put our seat belt on.

“Any place in particular you want to go?” Lauryn Hill’s soothing whistles notes filled my ears as the infectious beat of Nas’ “If I Ruled The World” vibrated against the cool seats.

“Not really. Pizza is pizza. Visa-O1 is decent. Blocks too.”

“I know a spot. It’s not a pizza place but they definitely serve pizza. Is that alright with you?”

“Yeah, sure. It’s fine.”

“Windows up or down?” My eyes followed his hand as it switched the car’s gear into drive and they slowly panned up to his face.

“Down.”

He obliged my answer and immediately began drive down Brickell Key Dr. I thought we’d be taking a local route and would be able to take glances at the melting pot of people having a joyous time outdoors but instead I was left to enjoy the scenic US-1 South for nearly fifteen minutes. By then, I could no longer quietly guess where we were going. In my time of living here, I never familiarized myself with this city as much as I should have. I don’t believe he’s ever lived here and he knows this place far better than I do. I couldn’t give him directions to anywhere beyond the handful of places I frequented. During date nights, Andreas and I usually visited same places and those became our spots to go out and have a bite to eat when we could. For Heather, social media announcements and Google Maps takes her wherever she needs to be down here. She goes wherever the night takes her and can barely recall where exactly that place was in the morning. She actually knows nothing more than the way to Mario’s home and mine. Actually, we know the beach too, but who doesn’t?”

“Is this a private road?” We crossed a bridge that I’d never seen or heard about and the surroundings didn’t ring a bell no matter how many times I looked around to familiarize myself.

“Yeah. This is sort of a beach club. Well, actually it is. It’s called Palmeiras.”

“You have a membership here?”

“Well, not technically. This place is represented by the company and the owner is a nice guy so he welcomed me to come by and enjoy the place whenever I have the time to.”

“So how is it? It looks great from out here.”

“I don’t know. This is my first time coming.” I couldn’t help but to playfully suck my teeth and we shared a laugh over my assuming. He didn’t used the navigation system, took the quickest route, and we arrived without him ever losing the way. It was easy to believe he comes here often.

“You’re such a prankster.”

“Hey, you assumed.”

As we stepped out of the car, I realized we’d come as close the Amalfi Coast as we were going to get. This hidden gem basks in the sweeping, unobstructed view of the stunning Biscayne Bay with a picturesque view and peaceful atmosphere that’s rare to find within this area. It marvels after the French Riviera in taste with hints of Italian and Greek structuring. We’d only been walking along side one another for a couple of minutes and I couldn’t take my eyes off of the extensive amenities and beautiful decor. Unlike any other waterfront restaurant, the views of the Bay from here are paranoramic, dazzling in what feels like a small paradise.

“This is incredible.”

“Fredrick was one of the three architects who designed and worked on this place. Miami is his playground and he’s surely done his part in making some of the more recent structures look incredible.”

“He has a great eye. I’m speechless about the view. My God. My house sits near the bay and I don’t believe the view is this incredible from there.”

“Yeah, he does. He’s excellent at what he does. He has an artistic eye that goes beyond being an architect.”

“I can tell.”

“You want stay outdoors?”

“Yes. I’d love that.”

He only left me for two minutes to have a short conversation hostess and it only took another three for us to be seated a table for two with an unparalleled view of the bay. Though he’d chosen not to drink for driving purposes, I indulged and ordered a peach mojito. The Absolute Peach, Pyrat Rum, and Apricot Liquor would compliment the view of the bay in calming my nerves. Though the Mediterranean style dishes throughout the menu were attention grabbing, I settled on a margarita pizza and he; a chicken sandwich.

“This place is so nice. I can’t believe you don’t come here whenever you’re in town. You sure you haven’t been on a date here?” I playfully raised an eyebrow at him and he quickly shook his head in response to it.

“No. I’m being truthful when I say this is my first time. I don’t understand how you were living here for so long and have never been here.”

“Oh you’d be surprised about all of the places I haven’t been throughout my duration of living here. I’m still a newbie in this town.”

“Were you home sick?”

“Uh. Kind of. I didn’t know anyone other than Andreas so I stuck around my house rather than hanging out with myself all the time. I didn’t make any real friends. I know you’re probably wondering why I didn’t become friends with all of the player’s wives but I wasn’t interested. They were pleasant; Savannah, Gabby, Adrienne, and the others, but I just kept to myself. Heather visited every now and then and we hung out a bit, but it still wasn’t enough for me to know and learn a lot around here.” I took my second sip of the chilled drink and nearly sighed in bliss as it steadily slipped down my throat.

“I like it here; not to live but it’s a nice place to hang out. I usually have fun when the guys and I make a trip down here together.”

“You said it’s Fredrick’s playground right?”

“Yeah, but not in the manner that it used to be. He’s locked down now. He’s in love but don’t let him know I told you that.” He chortled at the thought of his best friend and his possible disdain for that statement.

“Oh, he’s fronting about it?”

“Big time.”  

“What about your other friend Mike?”

“Mike’s a chill guy. He’s the joker out of all three of us and the big mouth. Honestly, I don’t know what’s up with him. I think he’s seeing someone. He’s secretive with that type of shit though. You don’t know until he wants you to know. He’d rather be in everyone else’s business, especially mine.” It was my turn to laugh when a frown appeared on his face. If anything Mike to him is what Heather is to me; obnoxiously nosy and a know it all.

“He’s always in your personal business?”

“Hell yeah. He asks a lot of questions. Fredrick will set me up on blind dates.”

“Blind dates? So they’re like match dot com for you?”

“Yeah, in the worse way.”

“As annoying as it sounds, I’m sure it’s just their way of caring about you. They want to see you happy and I think that’s cute.”

“Cute?” He curved his lips to the right and jerked his head back. “Yeah right. What about you?”

“Well, Heather used to try that in high school and at our early beginnings of college but it literally never worked out. I was the master of the curve back then and rather awkward if I must say so myself. I developed late, had a big ol’ forehead. I said that like it vanished. Anyway, I had no boobs or butt. I was kind of a tomboy and eventually shed that as I became older. By the time I was ready to date, I fell for one man and he became my first….everything. So all of that was cut short.”

“How did today go?” I didn’t expect that question after my answer and I nearly finished the rest of the drink as flashbacks of today’s courthouse nightmare played in my head.

“That bad huh?” He didn’t need an answer. I just nodded.

“We don’t have to talk about it. It’ll all turn out for the best. Just believe that.”

“I’m trying to.”

“It will. You want to go back to talking about my dull ass dating life? I don’t mind talking about it.” And just like that, he flared up yet another fit of laughter from me.

“Why do you call it dull?”

“Because it is. Everyone knows that.”

“When was your last girlfriend?”

“Uh, it was during my days at Columbia. Jessica. We dated for three months.”

“How long was your longest relationship?”

“Three months.”

“You’re lying.” I snickered until I nearly choked on the sip of the peach cocktail. He smirked while shaking his head and I glared at him awaiting his admission to that lie.

“I had a situation with someone that lasted a couple of months but it was no relationship. It was an agreement. Samira.”

“So Samira was alright with you two just….having sex?” I playfully side eyed him. “With no strings attached?”

“Yeah. We went out on dates occasionally but it never turned into anything serious though we played with the idea of it. I never met her family and she just so happened to meet my mother because we randomly ran into her. It wasn’t something that I wanted.”

“What did your mom say?”

“She was excited because there was finally some spice in my dull ass love life.”

“Stop calling it that.” Each time he said it I laughed. There was a playfulness in his tone that made it all the more funny. If he can turn something like this into a joke, I don’t see why anyone else can’t. The dating world can be hilarious. Heather and Rachel have stories that are amusing enough to leave you with both a headache and bellyache.

“And then you two parted ways?”

“Yeah. She’s engaged now……and then there’s me.” He snickered as I continued to laugh at his “sob story”. He seems content with his relationship status. I don’t get a lonely vibe from him. I can tell that he’s a loner by nature; not desperate for company, attention, or aggravation.

“Well, you don’t have to be single. There are women awaiting a chance. Before I even knew who you were, Rachel would sit at the desk and verbally lust over you. It’s not just her either. The women in that building and over at Meridian lust when you walk through those doors. You and your brother.” Dante impishly cut his eyes at me and I nodded my head with a smile to assure him that I’m telling no fibs. The Legend Of The St. James Brothers is famous within the companies.

“I don’t believe that.”

“It’s true. They turn into high school girls when you walk in with your designer suits on and your oxford shoes. The leather briefcase takes it over the edge. They giggle, whisper, and come up with all types of scenarios that they’re never going to execute because they’re too afraid to ask you out. You’re also very poised. There’s no exact way to approach you without the fear of looking foolish.” My eyes shamelessly followed his tongue as he ran it over his bottom lip and he shrugged his shoulders. We hadn’t touched our food since the waitress place it down in front of us.

“I don’t come there for that.”

“Your brother flirts.”

“With you?” He leaned forward just a bit and I shook my head.

“With everyone, honestly.”

“He’s married.”

“Oh, I know. Seems like I’m the only one who does know.”

“If he had it his way, no one would know.”

“You two are polar opposites.” It was his turn to finally sip his drink; a Sprite.

“Yes.”

“Are you close despite that?”

“No.” I finally grabbed a slice of the personal pizza and took a small bite out of it as he continued to stare at me. I expected him to finally take a bite out of his chicken sandwich but he didn’t.

“You work very hard. I’ve picked up on that ever since we flew down here for the first time together. You nearly bit my head off that day.” He grimaced; causing a snicker to slip past my lips. “What do you do to relax?”

“Play basketball, watch sports center for an hour or two. I’ll hang out with the fellas. That's about it.”

“You don't go on vacations?”

“No, not really. It’s funny that you mention that. My mother is pushing for this huge family vacation and I'm avoiding it like a plague.”

“Why?” He smirked. I wouldn’t mind vacationing with my parents for as long as Issac doesn’t attend it. I’m convinced we’d most likely try to drown one another at some point.  

“Because it won't be a vacation. It'd be seven days of horror. I’d rather not.”

“Well, what about with your friends?”

“They don't like going on exotic vacations without women, which is fine and I get it. They’re at that stage in their lives where companionship is important. We went out to L.A. with one another not too long ago and we come down here every now and then. That’s our vacations together. There’s work and a bit of play.”

“You need to enjoy your life and enjoy the fruits of your labor. There’s nothing wrong with that. It doesn’t make you arrogant or wasteful to splurge on something that will be beneficial and relaxing for you. You give back to God and the universe more than enough. You should allow God and the universe to give back to you. You haven’t been blessed with all of your success only for you to ignore it and overwork yourself. You should have some fun. I’m not the best at advice but I mean well when I speak.”

“I know you mean well and that advice is something that I’ll take into consideration. You’re not the first person to say it to me but you’re the first person to mention God within it. You’re Christian.”

“I am. I’m no church girl. I can’t even remember the last time I’ve gone to church. That’s probably why I’m a mess now.” My eyes panned to the moonlighted calm waters. “But I know he’s looking out for me; looking out for all of us. I questioned him quite a bit over these last two years because I just knew he was reeking havoc on my life but my aunt Sharon always told me if he brings you to it, he’ll bring you through it. I’m here. My story isn’t over. I still have my life, as my boss told me.” I winked at him and he nodded his head with a small chuckle. His lax body enthralled my own and I too relaxed into my seat and leaned against the back of the white chair.

“I own a home in Malibu. Only three people know about it; Mike, Fred, and Stacey. I had it built over the last couple of years. I’d been dreaming of having a huge house of my own since I was a kid. By the time I was eighteen, I began to save up for it and ever since then I’ve been working to be able to afford it. It’s completed now and as of a couple of months ago, it’s fully furnished.”

“So you’re moving out of New York?”

“No. I haven’t stayed in the house and I don’t plan to, at least not yet. The week we were in California, I went there, and as beautiful as the house is, it doesn’t feel like home yet. It felt empty with me standing in it. That tells me that I have a lot of unfinished business to handle and more to accomplish before I can settle my life there. That house will be my relaxation. It’ll be me enjoying the fruits of my labor. I have to wait though. It’s all in God’s timing right?”

“I’d say so. How long do you think it’ll take you to feel and be ready? A couple of months? A year?”

“I’ll be ready when it’s worth it in every single way possible. I can’t estimate how long that will be but I’m willing to wait.”

The moonlight glimmered in his unfathomable deep brown eyes as the confidence within his statement rattled me. In his reserved manner, he’s so assured in himself and what he wants. I mistook him to be still finding his way much like I am but he already knows the way. He’s practical and sensible with just enough assertiveness; unbelievable and yet so tangible. Vulnerable.

My eyes traced his jawline as he stared at the view that took my breath away upon our arrival.

Unreal.

[rosheendubh]

https://books.google.com/books?id=jUcqNBkKA64C&pg=PA91&lpg=PA91&dq=atli+oddrun&source=bl&ots=uKYwuk7Bzy&sig=-42A0djD2v7azaXfubHX0AsUHiY&hl=en&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwj3w-Gbh8fcAhUM7IMKHRRVCXY4ChDoATAEegQIBBAB#v=onepage&q=atli%20oddrun&f=false

Reference to Oddrun, sister of Brynhild and Atli/Attila, and lover of slain King, Gunnar. She journeys west after the defeat of the Burgunds in 437AD, mourning her dead King, and seeking escape from the ravages of warring tribes and nations in conflagration across the fragments of Rome’s west, eventually crossing the channel, and arriving in Hengist’s court, recently granted by his half-brother Vortigern, in the lands of the Cantici.

~

438 AD

Possibly old Segedunum/Carnarvon

~

A servant of Odin/Wotan, she senses a draw further west, where her skill and need are most keen--at the side of young Ygerna, the Irish princess and wife of Vortimer, Vortigern’s eldest son. Torn from the birth of her twins, Madrun and Anna, lying ravaged by the ignorance of monks no more knowledgeable of leechcraft or childbirth than a butcher, she lies dying, her husband--warrior bucking beneath the grim shadow of his greed-driven father, and his Jutish allies--grieving her torture, for the pain he's wrought her as well in the few months of their tumultuous marriage. 

Vortimer, who unknowingly bears the Sword of the Waelsungs, Sinfjotli’s progeny, Sigurd’s curse--a weapon blended of dragon-bone (read=dinosaur fossil), and star metal...(apparently, bone was sometimes mixed into the forging amalgam of a blade b/c the carbon content increased its strength?? I'm not sure how that works with fossils of dinosaurs...or, if swords are even forged, b/c I need to read up on smithing...something I had a brief intro into during the HighlandChalkenge, and something that's my fiance’s forte from his Medieval Martial Arts/Fencing and his reenacting...).  Shattered by the fire of Odin, and reborn at the breath of Wayland’s son, Withga, Oddrun enlightens the British Prince of the sword’s power.  And its curse. 

“What care I for pagan gods or pagan metal-smiths?” Vortimer asks, unmoved, “Thevblade is now a weapon of God, in the service of men of God--the one true God.  Your One-Eyed demon has no power here.”

Oddrun’s reply shows the irony of his pledge--appealing to a heathen woman for the salvation of his wife, a victim of Christian ignorance. Angered, about to dismiss her, Vortimer is stayed by his wife’s plea, spoken past her pain, to let Oddrun a chance to show her skill. In that shaking, breathless sorrow stirs Ygerna’s unspoken suffering in the months of her unwilling marriage, the tenuous affection that had begun to blossom between herself and Vortigern’s son, poisoned by Vortigern himself, possessed by the enchantment of Vortimer’s beautiful, young Irish princess. One last offering to Vortimer, to trust her, this time, with her own life as the price. 

Oddrun, watching Vortimer fall to his knees, promising Ygerna anything if she only lives, allows him a chance to show his love, feels again, the claws of her own sorrow still raw, mourning Gundohar’s death.  And the thread of her hatred, forever cursing her brother, Atli, to the fires of damnation, rejoicing when she received word on her journey west from the territories of the Danube, how Gudrun had slain his sons, and served him a hero’s feast from the skulls of his own children, burning his hall to the ground in retribution for the deaths of her family. Oddrun has little pity to spare for Gudrun’s loss, knowing Gudrun had sworn vengeance upon her own kin when they had brought the body of Sigurd back to their palace with a spear thrust through his back. Treachery bled with his life from the mortal blow.

Such grief as this, Oddrun ponders from a bitter heart, even here, on an island at the edge of the world, in a palace crowning a fort of Roman design, repaired by native British and Jutish workman, how Signey’s progeny darken fates, and Wayland’s vengeance yet spins its deadly destruction of lives and dreams.  Families and hearts perpetually broken by betrayal. 

But something here, something in this moment is different--Vortimer’s tears spilling into his dying wife’s breast, rising and falling in shallow in fits as she struggles for air amid the tremors wracking her worn frame. His sword, sheathed, rests by the door--a presence to Oddrun’s sense, as vital as any creature of flesh and blood, humming in a thirst for blood, taste of life before the kiss of death from its fatal edge. She hears the breath of her own God in that tremble crawling through the air, a hush beneath human sense, alive in her mind, a current raising hairs over her arms.

The mastery of that blade lies in the grip of kings, strength tethered with wisdom.  Few men, none in fact, posses the skill to match the spirit of Gram. Even the best of all warriors, Sigurd, fell to the price of that sword. Until now, here, where a man, a prince yet to realize his kingship, leaves his weapon abandoned. He chooses his wife, dying flesh over living steel, begging forgiveness of his young bride, broken in heart and body, to find one more measure of will, and step back from that darkness.  It's here, Oddrun realizes, something is different, this man who carries the blood of the wolf, also bears the fire of the dragon, a yearning for beauty and peace in an era of death. A vision of something rejuvenated, a Dream of Rome, but beyond Rome even--realms of earth and of mind. 

Ygerna’s gaze rests upon her husband, shadowed by fever and pain. And, there. A spark, a flicker of spirit, determination--a bright shaft through her delirium. She doesn't want to die, not yet, and not this way, some element of self-mockery in her drawn features, scorn at her body’s vulnerability that touches Odddrun with an absurd moment of joy, brief as it is, but heartening.  Love, belatedly realized, but pure in its essence, binds them. Ygerna’s fingers curl around her husband’s powerful grip, shaking and weak, but tender and purposeful, belying everything she hasn’t the strength of voice to speak, her reserves failing. Vortimer has asked her to fight, and Ygerna means to defy death, whatever the cost.  

For this reason, Oddrun will defy her God as well. What arts of the Valkyrn were her sister’s, Oddrun too, has learnt. A woman’s battlefield may be different than a man’s, but the dangers of the childbed are no less fatal.  Runes and leechcraft abound in her armament, wielded for the life of this shining soul. A price though--there's always a price. Heavy in sorrow, Oddrun sees.  Future advances, a woman who will be a mother of a king, begotten in shame and vengeance, father upon son. This man, husband kneeling at her side will not be the sire, but brother instead, progeny of the same father. The curse of Signey stains her children still.  A king, an emperor of the West once more. *Uter ap Vortigern*, and his queen--ah, his queen...

*Gwenafyr*, the name her god whispers, seeps through her mind, and washes into her skin, dread and desire and yearning, a wave of hunger. Her god awaits the feast and the ravishing, eager to taste her, and live in her flesh.  He fears though, and this, this is something new. Oddrun has never felt fear rising from All Father. Whatever this queen, from wherever she comes, his anticipation mingles with...bemusement. An odd word, capturing immortal fascination with mortal paradox.  What she’ll embody, he has sought through the ages.

*Revolution*, she ponders in her silent voice. *What you sought in my sister, that she rejected at the expense of a hero’s glory? What you awoke in Gudrun, that resulted in a bane of destruction for her hatred? And you think to find this...enlightenment? At long last, in the soul of some Pictish princess born at the edge of civilized lands? You've grown deluded, Old Man. Or desperate.*

*Wiser*, is the laconic reply, the hush of wind in leaves soaking her sense.

*She’ll be your death,* Oddrun cautions.

*She’ll be my life,* his words hang in her mind, an echo of a lover’s endearment. *A queen like no other.*

*And her king? This boy, yet to be conceived?* Oddrun challenges, wishing for a thousandth time Grim would leave these lives untouched, in peace.  

*They seek me, daughter.  Their desires summon me. What they ask in dreams, I fulfill. King, this son of wolf and dragon. His queen, my Daughter of Ravens--cauldron and starlight, sea and sky, my dark eye and light. Together, infinite promise.*

*And what price, this promise?*

No words, now, image only, floods inner-vision, the way a god shapes events of future making. 

“No!” Oddrun gasps, overcome, staring into the space before her, where Vortimer remains crouched at his wife’s bedside. 

Curiosity and wariness alive in his eyes, “You refuse to help her then?” he asks, misreading Oddrun’s involuntary denouncement.

She shakes her head, sorrow imprisoning her voice. How to explain her reluctance in a way that a Christian prince would not condemn as heathen superstition.

Ygerna, it is, who allays her husband’s fears, and instills a newfound calm in Oddrun. Her acceptance shaped by lips scarce strong enough for speech cut a wound in Oddrun’s conscience that will forever weep to the end of her days. “I know. I've seen as well, and I know.  This island belonged to a goddess long before your One-Eyed God claimed these shores.  And it will always belong to Her.  I'm not afraid, whatever comes of this night, and after. I'm not afraid.”

A child of old magics and older gods too, Oddrun guesses from Ygerna’s words, her conversion to the Christ’s teachings have been a recent thing. Wrought, perhaps, by the contingencies of her marriage with this British prince who shares common heritage with Waelsung, Jute, and Roman. 

Reservation rather than anger marks his scowl. What Vortimer follows of the women’s enigmatic exchange is rationalized as some sort of feminine absurdity, an intuition kin to their sex, and therefore of little consequence to the graver immediacies of men. "You'll help her?”

In the silence, Vortimer’s gaze hangs heavy upon her.  Scarcely older than her supplicant, Ygerna no more than seventeen at that time, Oddrun wavers before his desperate hope. Trust placed in her abilities, unwilling as it might be, distasteful and dangerous this route, accepting a heathen sorceress to heal his young wife. But love speaks a language more elemental than any religion, and Vortimer’s devotion to his one true God has been usurped in these months by a fresh welling of devotion to his wife, much to the consternation of bishop and priest. 

A deep breath, and finally, a crumb of serenity rising above the rumble brooding in her mind, Odin’s presence ever abiding.  Bowing her head, Oddrun’s solemnity silences even the God for a moment. “I will try.”  

It's all Vortimer needs to hear.  He nods once, hiding the emotion twisting his features, attention falling back to his wife. His hands folded over hers, he lowers his head upon the ragged rise and fall of her breast, as though straining for her heart beat between the spasms catching her wraithlike frame. 

From this moment, Oddrun swears her life to this family, to Ygerna and her children.  She has subsisted on the carrion of sorrow and hatred in the months since Gundohar’s death, aimless and errant through the lands of the Danube and the Rhine. What she sought, non-existant, eluding her amid the rustic halls of self-styled kings, grandiose egos larger than the piecemeal territories they carved out of once great cities, the rich fields long since deserted to waste and rot. Oddrun wandered like a phantom through these lands of shattered temples and twig-built hovels. Gradually, she realized she was being drawn by a current toward a fathomless destination, a thirsting beast following the scent of water, still beyond reach. 

Her dreams grew violent and vivid, flurried images that made no sense, of times and men either past or present, that she might have known in life or only in song. Always, always though, that blade, the sword of Odin, claimed by Sigmund and Sinfjotli, a god’s breath and vision in that mad weapon, and bright in her dreams.  The source of everything she had lost, never realizing as a little girl what she now knew as a woman.  Memory, her constant thorn. Sigurd, striding into Budli’s hall, confidant in his power, beauty of the war-god molded of perfect form, muscled arms, broad chest, and strong legs shod in armor that glinted as brilliant as his hair, gold and silver and the very light of the sun shimmering in his wolf’s eyes. And that sword, shimmering in its scabbard strapped across Sigurd’s back, its hilt stone glowing of red-gold and fire, amber holding the shadow of a serpent forever frozen in previous resin.

Oddrun was too young to understand the sudden awkwardness dimming his bold features when he caught sight of Byrnhilde. How her sister’s dark intensity transformed to eerie beauty for perhaps the first, and only time in her life.  Her wildness hovered beneath the surface of a restless gaze and sharp-tongued wit, captured in the set of pointed chin and chisled cheek, accentuated by the close-cropped black fuzz coating her scalp. An ensemble radiating the ferocity of a wild hawk, she moved with the grace of a wildcat, and the lethal speed of the hunting bird, a complexity the fearsome warriors of their father’s court found too intimidating to be beautiful.

Brynhild still drew her suitors, the allure of her dowery matched by the temptation of a champion’s prize, defeating her in single combat, and winning the bride thereby.  It had been Sigurd who bested her, Sigurd she accepted, Sigurd who asked leave to claim the horde of Andarvi as her bride-price, returning a season later with a host of richly armed men from Burgundian lands. In the name of his father’s sword had Sigurd come to claim his prize, the betrayal of a vow sworn to a woman’s heart, in the name of a brotherhood Sigurd had sought since the death of his foster-father, Fafnar, by his own hand and blade. The same one he now swore in his allegiance to the Burgund King, in the wooing and winning of Brynhild. From that moment, when Brynhild’s quick mind finally pieced what had transpired, was it a matter of time before her hatred and her pain would consume them all.  

No one knew the fate of Sigurd’s sword by the time the flames of his pyre had cooled. Brynhild, a husk of scorched bones embracing his blackened skeleton, had taken its length into her heart as she stepped into the blaze. Some thought Sigurd’s grieving wife had wrested the weapon away to an unknown place, hidden from her treacherous brothers. Others insisted Odin had stolen the sword back to Valhalla, to be wielded by its true champion, forever more a hero. 

Whence Oddrun had arrived to Britannia, her purpose solidified into a single feat. Her mantra, a repitition of defiance to her own past: destroy the blade. Her own damnation, flung in the face of All Father, but at least ending the havoc brought by that rabid steel. 

Yet, there it rests, propped by the entryway, in its scabbard, point down. Harmless, but humming to her ears, hungering to be wielded.  Oddrun readies her implements on a small side-table, beneath a window overlooking the courtyard from Ygerna’s quarters.  What has been a symbol of atrocity Vortimer--Gwerthemyr Fendigad, Emrys--means to transform into a symbol of justice. In  the name, not of his God, but of Ygerna, and their Dream. His love, the fire of his purpose. The ancient sovereigntry of Queen to King, as they struggle to form a nation of new emigres and native citizens, shifting borders and beliefs. 

And Oddrun’s heart lifts, freed by something she doesn't quite dare name yet, as happiness, let alone hope. 

[eterunameo]

@elerondo said: ❝I declare war on you!❞ Elrond squeals in that not-yet-mature voice, flashing a dagger at Maedhros.

The storm behind his eyes roils as he levels Elrond with an unblinking and calculated stare. He towers over the child, a full five times his height, and the sword he had been inspecting is shucked back into it’s sheathe with a flick of his remaining hand. There is an ominous pause, the air thick about him, before he turns toward Elrond more fully.

Crouching down to the child’s level seems to take some time for how fluid and controlled the action is, and he is still heads above him when it’s done. But the tone he speaks in is unfazed, both by the knife in his face and the shrew-like ferocity on display, and more instructive or correcting than anything else, rumbled sonorously through his wide chest.

“Premature action will doubtless spell doom for your purposes later. You must always declare your demands first, before what you will do to achieve them, whilst knives should be draw in between to emphasise your convictions. So. What do you demand of me, little crow? My lands, my riches, my armies? Will you have me for a slave?”